


Unravelling the Tale

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-17
Updated: 2002-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 102,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Nimue. Ever wonder just where Gollum IS during most of "The Fellowship of the Ring" and what he's up to? This is a Fellowship story which includes the somewhat dubious 10th traveller, that little charmer Smeagol himself. I give you the journey from Moria to Amon Hen, bits from Gollum's point of view, and a prolonged encounter along the Anduin between his precioussss and a certain elf we all know well.) A Legolas/Gimli book-fic, and Gollum too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As Dark as Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at HASA, which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the HASA collection profile.

Passages from "The Fellowship of the Ring" are credited to Tolkien, and used here merely to anchor my story to the original and give it some credence. Bits which shall come up in later chapters are taken from my lovely little moldy two hundred year-old (literally) book of Anglo-Saxon Riddles.  
  
"Unravelling the Tale" could be taken as a prequel to "When You Are With Me," but while it shall turn out to be another fic which dwells much upon Legolas and Gimli, it deals with other aspects of the novels than did my first story. Lots of the elf and dwarf, but no slash here, I'm afraid. Later, my dears, perhaps, but not in this tale. ; )  
  
Ever wonder just where the hell Gollum IS during most of "The Fellowship of the Ring" and what he's up to? I remember trying to figure this one out myself when I was a kid. This is a Fellowship story which includes the somewhat dubious 10th traveller, that little charmer Smeagol himself. I give you the journey from Moria to Amon Hen, bits from Gollum's point of view, and a prolonged encounter along the Anduin between his precioussss and a certain elf we all know well.)  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
  
  
It was dark. Deep night had fallen. Speed now was their concern as they followed Aragorn, moving unerringly along the winding way which passed between open spaces and ragged patches of fir trees, along the vale, dipping down towards the rushing streams running cold from the heights of the mountains and back up from the riverbanks. There were many stars in the sky, but the fast-waning moon would not be seen till late. The Company was grateful for the concealing darkness, yet ill-at-ease because of it. They moved swiftly, hoping to outrun both the shadows and the need for shadows. There were no words spoken between them; they passed over the land with hurried steps, nervous rustlings, their ears ever straining for the sound of distant drums and evil cries chasing their trail.  
  
The dwarf and the hobbit were at the rear, walking quickly, softly. They craned their necks from time to time to listen for any sound upon the road behind, and the hobbit halted often to look behind, to peer into the brush and clumps of trees which lined the ragged track.  
  
After another such pause, the dwarf drew near to him and broke the silence with his rumbling voice. "Not a sound but the wind," he declared. "There are no goblins near, or my ears are made of wood."  
  
  
  
Gollum blinked, peering at them through the shadows of the trees, large eyes catching the shine of the dwarf's mail and the gleam of the hilt of the hobbit's sword even in the dim light of that moonless night. He crept close to the ground, treading carefully between leaf and branch, watching.  
  
He knew this group of travellers. He had journeyed long with them over field and mountain and through dark places. He knew them well. He kept watch over them during the nights as they camped, listened to their speech and witnessed their camaraderie from where he crouched, closely distant. He watched their movements, knew their patterns and their deeds; he could have told them much about themselves that perhaps even they did not know from what he gleaned from those lonely vigils, so long had he followed, so long had he watched them. During those nights he longed for the warmth of the fire even as he feared the red flames, as deep inside he longed for their companionship and yet feared them.  
  
Yes, he knew each of them well and he hated them. He knew that the slightest misstep, the slightest noise would draw the cursed elf's bright eyes to him or make the tall men with the swords come back along the trail to nose about for his footprints and look for signs.  
  
But tonight... tonight, they were suffering much and their patterns of caution and defense had been stirred and broken. Not as careful as they were wont to be, not as wary; they fled in haste and thought themselves to be miles ahead of the enemy they feared. They were heedless.  
  
And so it was, he supposed, that the dwarf walked at the rear alone tonight with the hobbit.  
  
The hobbit.  
  
Gollum's slender fingers fidgeted, his hands twitching and rubbing together like two spiders tangling in a web. He could see the hobbit, could smell him, could feel... yessss.  
  
Could feel it calling to him, louder than it had for some time.  
  
He padded along, afraid, always afraid he would lose them. The worry was there with him always, and he had not slept, had not closed his eyes for a moment without this panic gnawing at him, always, always eating at his mind. Always the fear that he would fall asleep and they would be gone, vanished down the road upon paths even he did not know, even he could not find... though he knew, he knew that he wouldn't lose them, couldn't lose them, wouldn't lose them, couldn't... wouldn't.  
  
"They did not see usss in the caveses," he hissed in a low voice. "Did not see us in the dark pathses underground, did they? It is dark here too, it is, and the shivery light in the sky is sleeping, it is. It does not seees us, does not spiesss on us tonight, no, precious. They go, they go, they go into the forestses, they do, where the nasssty elveses hide and sneak, *gollum*, where it is we cannot follow. But not yet, not yet, they are not there yet, and they do not sees usss now...."  
  
He could creep, he could, and slide behind the little hobbit before any of them would know, could know, and his hands could be about his throat, squeezing, dragging the hobbit off the path, and it could be his before the dwarf could reach for his cold steel, before he could cry out to the tall men or the elf. He knew they were weary, knew their guard was down, knew the hobbit was wounded, knew they feared the orcs and grieved a lost companion. The night was dark and shadowed as were their hearts, and he could strike now, should strike now before they disappeared into the eaves and left him behind. He mustn't, he shouldn't, he couldn't let that happen. They would go where he could not follow,and then? And then? He quickened his step, weaving between the trees and shadows, inching forward, seeping along the edge of the trail so close that he could hear the rustle of the hobbit's clothing, could hear the shuffle of the dwarf's heavy boots, the creaking of the leather of his armor. Gollum swallowed and chortled quietly, desperately, so close, so near....  
  
He was distracted, too eager, and he stepped where he shouldn't, dislodging a stone from where it had been nestled for long, so very long, amongst the dead wood and dry moss, and it rolled, rolled from its groove in the dirt down the slope to the path to land with a clack amidst a scattering of pebbles to lie in a new resting place.  
  
Gollum froze. He watched quietly as the hobbit turned, then looked down at his weapon, then looked back once more. Gollum held still, very still, watching the hobbit puzzle and wonder, peering into the darkness for another glimpse of the cold tiny gleams of light he thought he had seen.  
  
Gollum squinched his eyes shut and scrabbled silently behind a rotting log, bitter disappointment nigh to drawing sobs from his thin throat. He swallowed and swallowed, trying not to make a sound, not to breathe.  
  
"What is it?" he heard the dwarf's ask.  
  
"I don't know," answered the hobbit. "I thought I heard feet, and I thought I saw a light -- like eyes. I have thought so often, since we entered Moria."  
  
The two stood there on the path, listening, looking for him, until he thought they would surely turn and come back, surely call to the others and they would find him, find him and hurt him, hurt him as others had done. He swallowed sobs and gulped air, breathing in the heavy scent of moss and loam, trying to dig himself low into the soil, to become a part of the ground, his hands clenching and unclenching. He cursed himself, cursed the hobbit... cursed it. He was tired of hiding, tired of cowering, tired. Just tired. They would find him. Perhaps it would end and he would have to hide and fear no more.  
  
"I hear nothing but the night-speech of plant and stone," the dwarf said after an interminable moment. "Come! Let us hurry! The others are out of sight."  
  
The dwarf put an arm over the hobbit protectively, pushing him forward, keeping him guarded. They moved swiftly now, acutely aware of the darkness and their separation from the others , and they disappeared up ahead at a downward turn of the path.  
  
The small, slinking shadow removed itself from the dark ground and darted forward.  
  
"There will be more chancesss, precious, there will. More chancesesss... they have far to go, precious, more dark nightses and dark pathseses, and we will be there, we will be waiting, yesss... and they will not see us. We will wait."


	2. Shadows Under Leaves

Though the haze of trees had been visible in the lower lands since they left the Dimrill Dale, it seemed the forest loomed before them rather suddenly when they finally reached its edge. The sparse firs and scattered brush which had lined the road through heather and whin gave way now to ranks of tall-standing trees arching over path and stream, their leaves whispering upon the night-wind. They had come to the outskirts of Lothlorien, well-guarded, fairest and most revered of the dwellings of the elves in Middle-earth. Their hearts grew lighter, though they had scarcely crossed the threshold and were yet far from the elven border. They passed beneath the eaves cautiously, their eyes becoming used to the dim light of the stars filtered by the trees. In the dusk the Golden Wood was colourless and seemed grey and ghostly to their weary and wary eyes.  
  
Mouthless mutters, hushed voices, stifling confinement. Not ghostly, no. Like a nightmare to the one who followed. Elvish webs of cunning and deceit woven between branches, elven enchantment in the very air. He could smell it, could taste it, and he trembled.  
  
"Few come out who once go in."  
  
Gollum had heard the large man with the silver collar say so, and the words had penetrated his mind. He murmured them now to himself in a sing-song voice, casting nervous glances at the heavy boughs which o'erhanged the narrow road. They creaked and rubbed together in the breeze as if in anticipation of snaring those who were foolish enough to enter. He paused, and he thought... he thought there was movement high in the tip-tops of the massive trees, movement which was not the wind, movement which he could catch only at the corner of his eyes but ceased when he looked directly to it. They could be silent, he knew, could be invisible if they willed it so. The elves, the elves would be watching, watching from high above, their piercing bright eyes seeking targets in the dark for piercing bright arrows.  
  
"Few come out who once go in... few come out who once go in...." he sang beneath his breath as he crept along the edge of the path, casting agitated glances around him, waiting for something to move in the darkness, to grab him, to clutch at him, for cold steel to slide over his skin the second he set foot in the wood. He slowed his steps, then stopped. Gladly would he have fled back down the way he came, back to the mountains and secret paths and away from the terrible trees. He remembered bonds and chains and the sharp ears of elven captors not so long ago. To him, one forest was as another. Those he followed were already far ahead, no longer visible. Only darkness and uncertainly lay before him.  
  
He snuffled and whimpered. "Cannot go in, my precious, cannot go in. Already too far, we are, too far, and they shall catches usss, they will, and we will never find it, never...." He took a few steps backward, then danced forward again, then cowered back.  
  
"We can't go back, no precious. Curse them and crush them, we can't!" He couldn't lose them, couldn't lose them now, not now. With a burst of audaciousness he squinched his eyes tightly and darted forward, daring them to find him, defying the voices in the wind. He ran and ran and came to a breathless halt some distance within the forest, then scrambled off the path to hide, pressed tightly up against the stem of a large smooth tree, his fingers digging into the bark, his thin chest heaving.  
  
He strained to catch the faintest noise, the faintest hint that something was creeping up behind him, that something had seen him. He waited for the hue and cry, the whistle of arrows... waited, and fretted, and panted; he waited... and waited... and began to relax, to hope....  
  
He started violently and bit down hard upon his tongue at the sudden sound of a lilting, cursed elvish voice echoing lightly from the path ahead.  
  
"Ease your hearts, my friends. Follow me. Here is Nimrodel."  
  
Gollum sank to the bole of the aged, mossy tree, muttering, wondering of whom it was the elf spoke, and if they had indeed met up with more elves there in the dark. Surrounded were they? Where one sneaking elf was, certain it was that there would be others. Again, he looked longingly back along the path he had trod and he yearned to go back, but a stronger compulsion was upon him now.  
  
It called to him, called to him all the more strongly the further into the wood it was taken. Now that he had passed within his desire rose and tamped down the fear and doubt and a fell light was kindled within his eyes once more. He crept forward carefully, quietly, weaving past the grey pillars of the trees, stopping now and then to watch and listen, but no voices there were but the familiar ones he had come to recognize.  
  
"The water is not deep. Let us wade across! On the further bank we can rest," the elf called softly.  
  
Gollum peered through open spaces, keeping low, and saw that they had come upon another stream, dark and hurrying, splashing across the pathway. The travellers were making their way one by one down a steep embankment to wade out into the shallow pools, gasping at the touch of the cold water swirling about their feet. The sound of the gentle stream seemed to lift the weight from the grieving hearts and they laughed lightly, making jests as it mounted to their calves, then their knees. The elf waited upon the far shore, the cruel bow slung over his shoulder, but only him, only one elf, no more. The tall man with the worn face came next with his cloak trailing in the water, and he cast keen glances behind him as he went, watching over the others. The hobbit was next with his servant, then the smallest who was smiling and taunting his companion beside him; he splashed and floundered until it was that neither of them reached the opposite side remotely dry.  
  
"Ai! Pippin! If it is cold water you love, far be it from me to deprive you!" They scuffled and pushed one another in the middle of the running stream until one of them inadvertently drenched the dwarf behind them with an ill-aimed kick.  
  
"Lest it is your desire I hold BOTH of your heads under the water and leave you as bait for the orcs, I suggest you be on that shore and far away from me!" The dwarf's deep voice was filled with an unnerving calmness despite his bedraggled state. The hobbits scrambled up onto the land shamefacedly to wring the water out of their drenched clothing.  
  
The large man with the silver collar brought up the rear, and it was long ere he stepped into the rippling creek to follow the others. He cast his eyes to the treetops often.  
  
It seemed as if he, too, saw the shadows.  
  
Gollum kept at a distance that was safe, leaving the path to slip through the trees, down the river, and only then slinking over the bank, cautiously, cautiously. He sank himself into the mud and deep water of a small pool at a bend in the stream where the water tarried sluggishly before plunging into the falls a short distance away. With nary a ripple he floated like a waterbug across the tickling stream, his arms and legs splayed, his eyes protruding above the surface. The water was cool and sweet and it cleansed the dust and filth which had clung to him over the miles; he paddled there for a long while in spite of the sense of urgency tickling his mind. Pushing the insistent voice inside his head aside, he stayed concealed, hidden, black upon black under a dark sky, feeling the current caress his parched and weary skin.  
  
Finally, reluctantly, he made his way towards the shore and clambered out onto the rocks. He shook his thin frame and licked himself like a cat, pawing long fingers through his lank hair. From where he sat he could hear them camped upstream and now and then he heard snatches of song floating down to him upon the air.  
  
Her hair was long, her limbs were white,  
  
And fair she was, and free;  
  
And in the wind she went as light  
  
As leaf of linden-tree.  
  
Beside the falls of Nimrodel,  
  
By water clear and cool,  
  
Her voice as falling silver fell  
  
Into the shining pool.  
  
  
  
Gollum listened to the voice, then leaned over to look speculatively into the dark water in the shoals at his feet. He saw the stars mirrored there, sparkling and winking like tiny bits of silver and glass, and the interlacing pattern of the branches high above him framed the black shadow of his own head. He dabbled his fingers in the puddle derisively and the stars wavered. He dashed his hand upon the surface and the stars disappeared. He turned towards the voices and sounds of the travellers taking their rest and he grinned, baring sharp teeth.  
  
  
  
Where now she wanders none can tell,  
  
In sunlight or in shade,  
  
  
  
Gollum crawled, tearing and pulling at tufts of reeds and clumps of dirt until he was above the bank and crouched upon the grass. He scrabbled upstream, wheezing and chortling to himself, "Few come out, precious...."  
  
  
  
For lost of yore was Nimrodel  
  
And in the mountains strayed.  
  
  
  
"...who dare go in," he hissed.  
  
  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
  
  
The voice of Legolas faltered and the song ceased. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head slightly as if he were listening.  
  
"Well?" Merry looked up, fighting to chew at a piece of dried meat as he pushed damp curls back from his face. "What happened next, Legolas? Did Amroth find her?"  
  
The elf was silent a moment longer, then Legolas turned back and smiled at the hobbit. "I am sorry, Merry. That is but part of the tale, for I have forgotten much. It is long and sad, for it tells how sorrow came to Lothlorien when the dwarves awakened evil in the mountains."  
  
"But the dwarves did not make the evil," said Gimli. He and Boromir sat side by side upon a fallen tree, the dwarf with legs outstretched, Boromir with his chin in his hands, elbows on his knees.  
  
"I said not so; yet evil came," answered Legolas sadly. "Then many of the Elves of Nimrodel's kindred left their dwellings and departed, and she was lost far in the South, and she came not to the ship where Amroth her lover waited for her. But in the spring when the wind is in the new leaves the echo of her voice may still be heard by the falls that bear her name. And when the wind is in the South the voice of Amroth comes up from the sea; for Nimrodel flows into Silverlode, and Silverlode into Anduin the Great, and Anduin into the sea. But neither Nimrodel or Amroth ever came back."  
  
"Mmm...." Gimli turned to address Boromir with a look of utmost seriousness and a thoughful tone. "Her voice mingled with the water," he mused. "A sweet maid, this Nimrodel... but she sloshes within my boots most unpleasantly." Boromir choked as he took a pull from his flask and dwarf and man struggled mightily to keep their composure.  
  
Gimli was pleased to see Pippin stifle laughter as well. The young hobbit had been suffering much since Gandalf's fall in Moria and they had worried for him. The hobbit's mood had lightened since they had crossed into the Wood, and though the dwarf reserved his misgivings about the place, he saw new hope slip back into his compnions' voices beneath the sheltering leaves of Lothlorien and he felt for the first time that perhaps they might find sanctuary here after all.  
  
Gimli regarded Pippin a moment longer, then glanced up to see Legolas straighten suddenly and push away from the tree upon which he had been leaning by the wayside. The elf melted silently into the forest.  
  
"Legolas!" Boromir called to him. "'Twas a jest! We meant nothing by it. Come back." Gimli snorted and murmured something beneath his breath. Boromir shook his head, troubled. "He should not be wandering alone here, Aragorn. I do not trust this wood."  
  
Gimli cast a casual look at the man beside him and saw the uneasiness in his face which he heard in his voice. New hope for all but Boromir, Gimli thought. The man took no comfort in the forest. The stalwart son of Denethor bore a pensive, uncertain look and seemed at the verge of jumping at his own shadow.  
  
Aragorn did not reply but he lifted his head; his eyes were shining beneath his hood. He had seen Legolas move, had seen the elf's face, had seen his elven ears fairly prick up and he wondered what it was their companion hunted. And thought that he knew.  
  
\---------------  
  
Gollum sat with his knees drawn up, his long, thin arms wrapped around himself. The air was cool but not cold, yet his skin was damp still and he shivered. His large eyes gleamed with a green light in the near darkness and he bared sharp teeth in a grimace. He remained some distance from the road, yet near, near enough to hear their voices, near enough to hear them rummaging through their baggage and to hear them partaking in food and drink. He shifted uncomfortably and ran his pallid tongue over dry lips.  
  
"Does they moves, or does they stayss?" he hissed quietly to himself. "'Praps they sleeps a bit, 'praps they does, and with haste, haste, we might find a bites to eats, we might... nice fishes from deep waters, crunchable and juicy, my preciousss. Famissshed we are yes, and orcses are near, they are, they are, but they must sleep before long, must rests tired eyeses, precious, they must, yes, they must...."  
  
The voices had quieted some and he edged closer, still mumbling absently to himself, then craned his neck sideways to better hear the conversation upon the pathway. He stiffened and became aware of someone staring at him.  
  
He gave a strangled squeak and looked up into inquisitive eyes, into a gaze as sharp as that of any bird, set in the pale and serene face belonging to the elf who sat within the crook of the tree under which Gollum crouched.  
  
The elf was perched there casually, impassively, pondering the creature below him. How long he had been there Gollum could not guess; he looked at the elf warily, taking into account that the bow was not over his shoulder, that the nasty white knife remained sheathed at his belt.  
  
The elf slowly straightened before him and stood tall; he pressed one hand against a balancing branch, then placed the other hand upon his hip.  
  
Gollum stayed crouched low to the ground. He blinked. The elf did not move. They watched one another for a very long time. Gollum's fingers twitched nervously. The breeze stirred the elf's dark hair.  
  
Gollum sprang. With the nimbleness of a squirrel he lunged over stone and brush, clawing his way up a broad grey tree trunk and hurling himself through the branches. The elf tossed his head and coiled himself and leapt, landing within the same tree. He ran along the limbs, twisting and ducking the boughs that snapped and whipped behind the fleeing creature. Faster than sight could follow they weaved and dodged, rustling through the foliage, Gollum skittering and scrabbling to find firm hand holds, throwing himself between trees, down from the heights to the ground, then bounding back up to wind his way through the dark mazes of wood and leaves high in the air. The elf was ever at his heels, vaulting through the spaces with flying leaps, sprinting across the trembling branches as if they were firm earth, touching the ground lightly, then kicking off into the trees once again, no more than a breath behind his prey. Gollum jumped for a branch and hung for a fraction too long and the elf was there above him, eyes flashing dangerously, and he clasped the creature's wrist. Gollum snarled and hissed and bit, shaking loose, twisting himself desperately. He let go of the branch he held and his heart caught in his throat... then he deftly snagged another and he was off once more. They chased with dizzying speed through the grey forest, two shadows flickering quickly, skimming fluidly through the woods, circling and twisting back towards the clear stream which crossed the path, Gollum keeping ever just a fingersnap ahead of the elf.  
  
Until he ran out of trees.  
  
The tree-line ended abruptly at the water's edge at the riverbank. In his panic Gollum moved higher rather than nearer to the ground, scrambling along boughs which thinned and grew too weak to support even his spare body. They bent and broke as he tried to find purchase among them, clinging desperately with nimble fingers and grasping toes. Gollum caught a brief glimpse of the elf standing below and beyond him, cradled securely in the forked trunk, watching him, and he hissed in rage and frustration. Then he grabbed and searched and found nothing left to hold on to.  
  
Legolas watched the strange creature plummet with limbs flailing just out of his reach. It hit the soft ground far below with a muffled thud and to the elf's amazement, the thing was immediately on its hands and feet once more and loping towards the stream. It jumped once, twice, three times, over the deep embankment and plunged into the dark water, disappearing with the current.  
  
The elf climbed down and paced silently to the edge of the Nimrodel, but there was no sign, no sound but that of the running water. He knelt and examined the tracks of long fingers and spindled toes pressed into the wet soil.  
  
\-----------------------  
  
  
  
"We have stayed here beside the road already longer than is wise, Aragorn," Gimli said impatiently. The wind was gusting harder now and the dwarf wrapped his cloak more tightly about his shoulders as he stared back along the winding trail from whence they came, back towards the Dimrill Dale; he watched the leaves swirl in patterns over the dark ground and past his feet with a dry rush.  
  
There was a soft whistle off to his side from the trees and the dwarf whirled, his hand upon the hilt of his axe. He felt a light movement behind him and he turned back to find the elf sitting cross-legged before him on the path as if he had been there all along. A smile played upon Legolas's lips and in one cupped hand it appeared he was holding a goodly amount of river mud.  
  
Gimli's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare...." he growled.  
  
"My dear dwarf... mud drives the sting from scratches." Legolas stood complacently and proceeded to anoint the thin abrasions which lightly traced his hands and face. "The trust you place in your companions leaves much to be desired," he murmured, and amusement shone in the elf's pale green eyes.  
  
"Certain companions, yes, and for good reason. Most of my companions are not out tilting with trees in the middle of the night. What have you been up to?"  
  
"May... may we go on?" Frodo interrupted with a tense voice. The hobbit sat nearby on a rock by the trail, one hand pressed against his breast as if he were in pain, his face still drawn and weary from the events of that morning. Sam was by his side, both his pack and Frodo's slung upon his back, and his eyes were tired and filled with concern beneath the fresh bandage Aragorn had wound over his head.  
  
"Of course, Frodo," Legolas said ruefully. "I am sorry. It is indeed unwise to stay here. Our pursuers are not far behind and we must find safe ground to rest. It was not my intention to tarry for as long as I did. Forgive me." He bowed slightly to both hobbits and ere Sam could find the words to protest, Legolas moved near and relieved Sam of the burden of his pack and Boromir took Frodo's. The Company rose and stretched and prepared to continue with their march. The elf swept past Gimli to gather his bow and his belongings; he handed the dwarf's gear to him and patted his shoulder amicably as he passed him by.  
  
Gimli glowered, staring daggers at the elf's back. He felt the generous plaster of mud stick where Legolas had touched him and begin to stiffen and dry.  
  
"Safe ground. That may be hard to come by, Aragorn! How far are we yet from the borders of Lorien?" asked Gimli as he stomped along behind.  
  
"Not far, yet far enough," Aragorn called back. "Too far, if the orcs are as near as I suspect. They are as hounds upon the scent and the Golden Wood is vast. The trees grow taller and the forest deeper towards the west beyond the Silverlode. There we might find shelter."  
  
They turned aside from the winding road and began to pick their way through the underbrush. Aragorn slowed his pace, letting Boromir and the hobbits lead. He fell back to walk with Legolas and he looked questioningly at him. With the streaks of mud painting his face the elf looked like some wild forest spirit risen from the earth.  
  
Legolas met his gaze and shook his head lightly. "I had hoped we had lost him in Moria, but it seems he follows Frodo still," he said in a low voice. "A fright I gave him, I believe, and perhaps he should not now be so bold as to linger so near. I would have slain him had I not recalled Mithrandir's reluctance to do so in Moria and... in truth, I know not if I could have done it. He is an utterly miserable creature, Aragorn."  
  
Aragorn sighed and nodded, running his fingers through tangled brown hair. "One more danger, one more worry. There is naught else to be done tonight but press on as swiftly as we may."


	3. When All Is Lost

It was cold. He was cold, he knew, but he did not feel it. The chill from the ground seeped into his body, into his bones, but it seemed distant and not very real. He found it hard to breathe but could not remember why. He hurt. He hurt, but that was distant as well and he thought perhaps if he closed his eyes hard enough the hurt and cold might go away and he would wake to find himself warm and hale and whole once more, and he could be returned to the existence he knew.  
  
The existence he knew.  
  
He shivered and closed his eyes and remembered the world that once he knew.  
  
\-----------------  
  
  
  
"Listen," she would say, "I will tell you of ages long past...." and they would gather at her feet, her children and her grand-children, and she would tell them of a time when the world was made new and the light of the stars was young, when evil had not yet awakened, when there was no shadow upon the land. They would listen with rapt attention, though they knew her stories, knew them by rote, knew every word and every rhythmic turn of her voice, the very rhythm of their life. She passed their history to them in this manner, as the Elders had to her, as her children would to theirs, and on throughout the ages as was the way before the written word. Their stories were woven of threads of the past and the present, serving to preserve what had been and to remind them of who they were. Their legends became their lives, their lives became their legends, and all were a part of a timeless sea of events which would stretch on long after they themselves had ceased to live, and yet they would not be forgotten by those who came after. Thus they gathered at her feet and listened and they knew their place in the family, knew their place in the world.  
  
And for them the world was this corner of the Wilderlands, a bit of country made up of marshes and grassy plains near the Great River, vague and rather unremarkable other than that it was near the shallow crossings over which the Tall Men and Fair Folk often passed on their way to other places. The dark forest grew fast and wild to the east of them and the mountains stood strong and vigilant to the west, but as the blood flowed through the veins of these hill-people, so did the sound of running water in their hearts; they strayed never far from the strong stream which linked mountain to sea and they made their homes within sight of the rocky shoals and swiftly flowing river.  
  
Small they were and sturdy, and their hands and feet were overlarge and delightfully proper for swimming. Most were olive-skinned and dark-haired, and their eyes were light and bright and curious. Their homes they made in the low hills, burrows delved into the earth itself which, in truth, appeared to *be* hills till one wandered near enough to see the round openings and the hides covering the entrances. Inside the clusters of these burrows would dwell the extended families of the matriarchs, and their children were reared by the many rather than few, and all were ruled by the wisdom of the elders of the clan.  
  
It was among this small group of rustic river-dwellers that a son named Smeagol was loved and raised.  
  
His clan was the largest in the village and the most highly regarded. His grandmother was the oldest of their people and considered by many to be the wisest, and few even from outside clans would come to her to beg advice or marvel at her stories. She was revered by her family; to Smeagol she was omnipotent and he was ever in awe of her. He was one of the youngest of the clan and as such was doted upon by all, especially by her. As a child he would often sit at his grandmother's feet and listen to her speak, and she would pick him up and cradle him and peer at him with clever eyes and tease him with conundrums and fill his mind with tales of beginnings and memories of long ago.  
  
He was a bright, pretty child with an inquisitive mind, and the elders would smile when he asked questions and more questions, never satisfied with what they gave him and always craving more knowledge. He wanted to know why the rain fell, who created the mountains, where the river began. His grandmother would answer what questions she could and still he was unsatisfied.  
  
"...I touch your face... I'm in your words... I'm lack of space and loved by birds. Grandmother, what? What? Is it air? It is! The answer is air. Too easy, Grandmother, a chestnut that one was, and too easy," he scowled, and then brightened again. "Grandmother, how do birds stay in the air, anyhow? Why do we not have feathers? I would much rather have feathers than hair, I think, and how come...."  
  
"Smeagol, you will wear yourself thin," she would chide gently. "You are as headstrong as the Tall Men, as curious as the Fair Folk. I think you are not one of us at all, but a changeling child left in your mother's arms as she slept. You have much life to live yet, and time enough to answer the questions you have for yourself, little mouse."  
  
"I wish to know things," Smeagol would say, and his small face would screw itself up with frustrated longing. "I wish to know about everything."  
  
"And once you knew everything, then what is it you would you do? Even the wise do not know all."  
  
  
  
Smeagol spent much of his young life searching for the answers to his questions and exploring every inch of the Wilderlands that was within his reach. Often he was alone, but sometimes he would have company in his grand expeditions in the person of his younger cousin, the son of his father's sister, a slender and light-hearted child named Deagol who looked up to Smeagol and followed at his heels wherever he would go. Smeagol found this to be of the utmost annoyance for a very long time, but it came to be that eventually he went nowhere without Deagol and missed him when he was not there. His younger cousin had a curiosity to match his own and was always willing to follow upon a trek to the edges of the dark forest or a trip down the river in search of the perfect fishing hole. They would return home bearing the treasure of their day, whether it was a string of shimmery silvery trout, a plunder of mushrooms gathered from beneath the shady hollows beneath the trees to the east, or horseshoes and bits of leather or silk left by the travellers whose feet brought them to paths crossing the Great River and close to the homes of these small hill-people.  
  
And often travellers did come, and the hill-people would hear the approach of horses and hear the sounds of strange voices speaking in words they did not understand. If the company that approached was large they would remain hidden and let them pass, but their presence was not unknown to some whose business or pleasure took them often across the Great River to and from the mountains. Those who knew where to look would find the hill-people there, and often Tall Men or factions of the Fair Folk would spare a few moments from what deeds called them hither from their homes and they would come to speak with the tiny hill-people, to trade for food or hides, or simply just to see these strange beings and marvel at them. A few of the village's elders had taught themselves to speak sparing words in the tongues of the travellers who passed and so could communicate with them, if only in the most basic of ways.  
  
When groups of these strangers had come and their elders were certain it was safe, the children were allowed to go and see them. Smeagol and Deagol, being the intrepid scholars they were, never missed an opportunity to get near the visitors and learn all they could from what they bore with them, what clothing they wore, and from the bright weapons at their sides that would flash in the sunlight and capture their eyes.  
  
Deagol loved the Fair Folk. Smeagol's small cousin delighted in all things growing and green, and loved nothing more than to run happily back to their grandmother with an armful of bright flowers fresh from spring soil gathered in his arms. If left to his own devices he would sit for hours on end in a patch of sunlight by the riverbank and watch the reeds blow in the breeze or the lilies nod and bow their heads until Smeagol was sent out to fetch him and bring him back for supper. The Fair Folk quite astonished Deagol, though he would never dare approach them ever when they came to visit their village. He confided in Smeagol that he thought them to be magic, like the magic of the stars up in the sky or the magic of his father's lucky fishing pole which never failed to catch at least a half a dozen fish when he took it to the river with him. Deagol was forbidden to play with his father's fishing pole lest he should break it and ruin the magic, and in his child's mind he was afraid to come near the Fair Folk for the same reason; he feared to draw too close, worried that he might ruin the magic with his meek touch and they would vanish and never come back. Always would the child linger wistfully nearby, and he would follow their movements with shining eyes and flush to the roots of his curly dark hair if one of them smiled upon him. When the Fair Folk sang, as they often did when they approached or bid their farewells, Deagol would cease to stir, cease to breathe until the last note trailed off in the air.  
  
Smeagol was fascinated by the Fair Folk as well, but more captivating to him were the rare visits from those they called the Mountain Fathers, those who were shorter than the Tall Men and did not sing as did the Fair Folk. With fierce eyes hardly to be seen beneath bristling braids and beards these warriors could be heard approaching from a great distance and often plunged through the river and on without stopping, having no time to tarry, on their way to tending important matters. Only twice had they paused to speak with the hill-people during Smeagol's lifetime and the visits had been brief. Their voices were deep, deep as the roots of the earth. Whereas Deagol loved the beauty of leaves and flowers, Smeagol was interested in what lay beneath, where all things began. The Mountain Fathers seemed made from the very stones in from which Smeagol's grandmother said they lived. Smeagol had thought that perhaps they could answer his questions and tell him the secrets of the deepest places in the world, but he did not speak the thundering language of the Mountain Fathers and could never ask. He would stand by to watch them and wonder at their shining silver coats, to gaze with longing at the gems which glittered at their throats and dripped from their hands and to shiver a little at the sight of the wicked axes they bore. They never stayed long, and Smeagol would be left to wonder what kind of villages they made and what it would be like to live inside a mountain and whether they had cousins to play with and grandmothers to tell them stories.  
  
When the travellers were gone, Smeagol and Deagol would run off to spend their time by the riverside. Deagol would mimic the Fair Folk and try to walk across the rocks to the other side without teetering off, and Smeagol would sit by the water's edge and sift through the pebbles and sand and gather pretty stones and polish them along his shirt until they gleamed almost as brightly as those the Mountain Fathers kept.  
  
And so they grew, Smeagol and Deagol, and they were almost always together. Deagol remained the smallest of the two, but quicker than Smeagol and more adept at catching fish. Smeagol was stronger and could climb the trees in the dark forest with more skill and the two would often enjoy the treat of eggs scavenged from unguarded nests. They wandered together over plain and marsh and creek bed, scouting out new territory ever in their eagerness to see just what might lie over the next hill, and they took it to be a personal affront if there were any stone in their world left unturned by their hands.  
  
Seasons passed and the summer that year was particularly hot and humid. The hill-people spent much of their time at the water's edge as it was, but now the only respite from the overeager sun was the cool river and they flocked to it. They would take their meals upon the rocks along the banks and would weave small rafts of reeds and weeds to paddle in the deep pools and to sleep away the warmest hours of the days.  
  
Deagol woke his cousin early one auspicious morning with a cheery trill from outside the entrance of the burrow; he met Smeagol down the path with two newly-crafted fishing poles, a basket of food, and a grin which stretched from one edge of his good-natured face to the other.  
  
"Happy birthday, coz!" his companion had said in a whisper, and ere anyone else yet set foot outside that day, the two were off on their own. "Soon you will be too old for fun!" Deagol had proclaimed and he had teased and taunted Smeagol, standing upon his tip-toes to match the height of his taller cousin and squinting to see if perhaps Smeagol had the beginnings of a beard as the Mountain Fathers did wear, and otherwise behaving as a younger cousin should until Smeagol had pushed him headfirst into a bramble bush.  
  
Laughing, they tread quietly so as to wake no one ere they could be off. The two made their way down to the river and absconded with a reed raft left there unattended. This would prove to be another hot day if the sky was any indication, and they had wished to be far from the village and free of responsibility, to leave behind the sticky warm confinement of home and family.  
  
  
  
Looking back upon that morning, Smeagol would have given everything, anything to have stayed.  
  
  
  
They paddled far, letting the current take them. Deagol wished to stop at midmorning to eat a little and to wander the land upon the west bank, but Smeagol wanted to see something new; it was his birthday, after all was said and done, and he was feeling adventuresome. And so they journeyed on past familiar stopping points, passing them by, passing them by for what might lie beyond the next bend in the river, further than they had ever dared to venture. If one felt any misgivings about being so far from home, he certainly did not share that feeling with the other; they were brave wanderers and someday they would travel to see the mountains and explore the forests.  
  
For the most part, this particular adventure had been uneventful. They ate their lunch and watched the shore skim past them and plunged into the cool water now and then when the sun beat too hot upon their backs. They were dozing, in fact, side by side when the raft suddenly surged and flew past a point where the Great River mingled with another flowing cold from the mountains in the west.  
  
The swiftness of the rapids took their breath and they felt their tiny raft of reeds creak and shift beneath them. The Great River swallowed the other stream and flowed on, stronger now, louder and wider, splashing over sand and gravel. It narrowed to slide over an incline of smooth stones and with a whirl and a rush, it dumped them over the edge and into a large deep pool. There the water eddied and swirled in lazy circles before carrying its way on down the river's path and was almost still there, and try though they might, they could not see the bottom. The sunlight glinted upon the edges of the light current. Upon one shore were fens and marshes fed by underground springs, and upon the other, sparse brush and tangled trees blocked the view of the fields beyond and their shadows dappled the pool.  
  
Deagol blinked and stared with large, eager blue eyes at this most perfect of fishing-holes into which fortune had tipped them, and he gave a joyous whoop.  
  
They spent the afternoon fishing and swimming; Deagol pulled in fish after silvery fat fish even during these hottest hours of the day, shouting with glee each time his pole strained and dipped into the water. Smeagol paddled about the pool lazily, ignoring Deagol's admonishments that he was scaring away the trout. Cool air came up from the river and warm air beat upon his skin from above; he closed his eyes and let the river lift him, feeling so light, utterly weightless. His ears were filled with the sound of splashing water, the call of birds along the shore, his cousin's lively voice, and the hum of dragonflies which darted through the air and hovered near; he thought there could be no place in the world as wonderful.  
  
The dragonflies buzzed closer and Smeagol flicked his hand over his head, trying to drive them away. The sound persisted, and did not seem to waver.  
  
Too steady to be dragonflies.  
  
It was a droning buzz... a droning which grew stronger... and more pronounced until it began to seep through into his pleasure-hazed mind. Too loud was this sound that was not dragonflies, and now it was a persistent sound that grew and grew... and seemed almost...  
  
It seemed to form words.  
  
... it wasss hot when I firssst took.... ... with this sssshall I .... throw it, throw it away.... .. ... many sssseek it and I will not... .... lest it fade beyond recall....  
  
Smeagol was wrenched from his daydreams and he spluttered as the water closed over his nose and mouth. He tread water and looked about him with a bewildered expression, then glanced at Deagol.  
  
If his cousin had heard anything odd, he showed no indication. He was lying upon his belly at the edge of the raft, fishing-pole clenched tightly in his hand, willing the fish to bite. He took no notice of Smeagol's discomfiture.  
  
Perhaps he had been in the heat too long.  
  
Smeagol swam away and pulled himself slowly to shore. He sat upon the sand, feeling the sun's rays evaporate the moisture on his skin. He absently scrubbed a hand through his wet hair while staring apprehensively into the brush, wondering if they were being watched.  
  
The sound that was not dragonflies buzzed around him louder and a deep voice spoke. It was as if someone was whispering into his ear.  
  
....I doubt... if I shall ever be freee of the pain of it.... ssso near.... is unknown to me... so Gil-galad wasss destroyed... .. I will rissk no.... it is precioussss to me....  
  
Smeagol cried out, and Deagol turned laughing, thinking his cousin was calling to him. Deagol quieted at the sight of his Smeagol's pale face and made to speak, but he did not have the chance.  
  
Smeagol watched in horror as Deagol's head whipped back and he grasped his pole with both hands. Something tugged at the line, something larger than any fish, and with a shout and a splash, Deagol and his fishing-pole disappeared.  
  
Smeagol screamed Deagol's name and dove into the river, but the constant, slow movement of the stream roused the soil beneath so that nothing could be seen below the surface. He dove over and over, swiping his arms about him in the murky water, and returning time and again to the top with a gasp and a handful of naught but mud and weeds. He cast about, his eyes frantically searching for any sign of Deagol, but there was none. The sunny pool no longer seemed to reflect the sunlight, but absorbed it. The black surface was flat and menacing, broken only by the current which circled as if the water was being stirred by gigantic invisible fingers. The trickle of the stream which fed the dark pool now seemed a roar in his ears; the river an overpowering and uncaring thing that did not care if it took his cousin from him. He swam to the lonely raft in the center of the pool and dragged himself on to it, weeping.  
  
.... in the darkness... where ... ... shadows lie.....  
  
As his hope failed, as his despair reached its depth, Deagol surged upward no more than a few feet from the raft, his arms flailing, choking for air. Smeagol wiped his eyes, flung damp dark locks from his forehead and reached for his friend, yanking him onto the raft with a strength that belied his thin body. He clasped a trembling Deagol to him tightly, and his little cousin held onto him as if he would never let him go.  
  
"Deagol... Deagol, what was it?"  
  
His cousin was silent for a moment, his breathing still rapid, then he flashed a shaky smile at Smeagol.  
  
"The one that g..g..got away, I suppose," Deagol stuttered, and he laughed. Despite his concern Smeagol laughed too, and they fell over one another on the raft with nervous merriment.  
  
Smeagol looked uncertainly over the edge into the deep water. "You lost your fishing-pole," he said.  
  
Yes, but... but Smeagol, look what I found."  
  
His cousin thrust his hand into the pool and sloshed it about, then drew it forth once more. His fist was clenched tightly and straggled bits of weeds poked out from between his fingers. Slowly, Deagol opened his hand. And he caught his breath.  
  
  
  
Nothing was ever, ever so beautiful as that glittering circle of gold.  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
  
  
He was cold. He knew he was cold, but he did not feel it. He twitched where he lay huddled in a niche in the riverbank, half-buried in the dirt and grass beneath a large mass of roots. It smelled of moist soil and earthworms and moss and he could not be seen, would not be found. He licked at the ragged gash along his ribcage and whimpered softly, remembering now the hoarse shouts of the orcs, the sharp whistle of elvish arrows, and the black blood which had soaked the forest-floor and overran the clear stream water. Gollum had fled through the trees, had vanished down the Silverlode southward, running with bent back and hands near the ground as the beast they believed him to be. He had eluded capture. They could not catch him.  
  
But he had lost them, yes, lost them. The elves hid the hobbits and the tall men and the elf and the dwarf, hid them in the trees, and had chased him away from them when he drew near. They were gone, gone down paths he could not follow.  
  
He was cold and in pain, but they were distant sensations, distant compared to the loneliness and despair which now racked his body and stole his breath from him. And though he squinched his eyes closed and begged for release, he could see that nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. Nothing changed at all.  
  
He missed their voices.


	4. Beneath the Sun

Never again would they set eyes upon Lorien.  
  
The days they had spent walking the white paths beneath the glorious golden boughs of the mallorn trees were gone, the nights spent sweetly under the starlit skies which seemed somehow closer, nearer to the touch than any skies beyond the grace of that elven land were past. All of it was behind them now and would belong to them again only in their dearest, deepest dreams. They had left the Golden Wood. It had seemed to them as they dipped their paddles into the water and drove their boats into the stream that Lorien was slipping away, like a bright ship masted with enchanted trees, sailing on to forgotten shores, while they sat helpless upon the margin of the grey and leafless world. Even as they strained to catch the last glimpse of the elvish haven the Silverlode passed out into the currents of the Great River and their boats turned and began to speed southward. The river swept round a bend and the banks rose upon either side, and the light of Lorien was hidden. The travellers turned now their faces to the journey; the sun was before them, and their eyes were dazzled, for all were filled with tears. Despite the ache of their departure, each had vowed within their hearts to continue on and see the quest to its end, but none left that fair shore without regrets, without a backward glance at the joy they left behind.  
  
That had been nearly two days ago and the dull grey hours passed without event. The stream flowed without a sound and no voice of bird broke the silence. Bare woods stalked along either bank, and they could not see any glimpse of the lands behind. It was as if the outside world did not exist, that in stepping from the dream that was Lothlorien they lingered still in a maddening half-sleep. They could do naught but sit and let the river take them and wait for what might lie in store. At first they strove with song and speech to keep the fair enchantment of the land they left behind alive in their hearts and in their minds, but ever they felt it slipping from them, the peace they had found there now quelled by the uncertainty and fear of the road which lay beyond.  
  
Celeborn had given them the gift of light boats and in such they travelled, Frodo with Sam and Aragorn, Merry and Pippin with Boromir, and Gimli with Legolas. The three vessels skimmed their way down the Anduin and bore them steadily along their route south. They crouched within the subtle little canoes and let the current sweep them along as leaves tossed and taken by the stream. During the first day, the forest rose up from the banks of the river still, and they were surrounded by the tall, grey trees, standing as sentinels to shield them from unfriendly eyes as they passed. Now they travelled further and the trees began to grow sparser and more ragged, the land less secure. The forest was gradually giving way to what would become The Wold, a bleak and barren countryside through which the Anduin meandered listlessly, biding its time ere the roar and the rush took it over the heights of Rauros and off to find the sea.  
  
Frodo watched the failing trees slide silently past them on either shore and sighed. Sam was asleep, curled up tightly upon the floor of the boat. Aragorn had not spoken for some time; his eyes were vague and he seemed distant. Frodo noticed that his fingers hovered often at the emerald brooch at his throat and he did not wish to intrude upon his reflections. The Company had been silent for much of their journey upon the water this day, and any attempt at conversation proved fruitless as each were content to be lost in their own thoughts for much of the time.  
  
Frodo found this hard to bear and he was restless; he wished to be doing anything but simply sitting quietly and letting the river deliver him to his fate. The boats given to them by the Galadhrim rode upon the water smoother than any other could, and yet this afternoon he felt every ripple roll beneath him and his stomach protested another day bobbing upon the current rather than walking upon dry land. Miserably, he wondered which would conquer him first, the pangs in his stomach or the pangs in his heart. He felt the loss of Lorien almost as deeply as any longing he felt in quiet times for the Shire; it was as if he were leaving home all over again.  
  
He lips were dry from the wind and the sun beating down upon him, and he absently rummaged through his pack at his feet for his water flask. He came up instead with the phial given to him by Galadriel and he lifted it. The light sparkled within and Frodo tipped it gently in his hands, watching the clear water inside flow and swirl against the crystal glass.  
  
He stared long within its depth until the shimmering light made him blink. He listened to the faint gurgle of the river fretting among the tree-roots and driftwood near the shore and he murmured:  
  
  
  
Sing us yet more of Earendil the wandering,  
  
Chant us a lay of his white-oared ship.  
  
More marvellous-cunning than mortal man's pondering,  
  
Foamily musical out of the deep.*  
  
  
  
From over his shoulder came an answering voice, so soft he thought it at first to simply be the words inside his head.  
  
  
  
Sing us a tale of immortal sea-yearning  
  
The Eldar once made ere the change of the light,  
  
Weaving a winelike spell, and a burning  
  
Wonder of spray and the odours of night.  
  
  
  
Frodo turned to find Legolas guiding his boat steadily near to his. Gimli lay resting before him, his back resting against the curve of the bow with strong arms crossed over his stout chest, his cloak wrapped over him, breathing lustily as he slept in the sun's rays.  
  
The elf lifted his eyes from the phial cupped in Frodo's hands to the hobbit's face.  
  
"T'is truly a fair gift, Frodo," Legolas said. "The very light of the stars shines within your palm." The elf stayed the sweeping strokes of his paddle and he propped an elbow upon his knee, his chin upon his hand.  
  
"Tell me... does it help to look upon it? Gimli did grieve that Lorien would become nothing more than a memory for him, though I fear I do not understand mortal dreams nor the nature of your memories and why this should make him so sad. Yet I see the same sorrow in your eyes. Is it even thus for you?" Legolas's brow furrowed and he tentatively asked, "Are mortal memories so fragile? Are they so fleeting that you would forget even such as Lorien?"  
  
Frodo smiled at the quizzical expression upon the elf's fair face, pleased to have someone willing to talk to him, then he forced a solemn expression. He nodded.  
  
"Yes. I suppose we will forget, Legolas. In time, Lorien will be nothing more to us than a recollection of light upon leaves, snatches of words and vague faces. It will not happen all at once, for something as marvelous as Lorien is not an easy thing to forget, but it will happen. We live so short a space in Middle-earth, Legolas, compared to your people, and I think... I think maybe we are rather worn by the passing of time as a hill is worn away by the wind, whereas the elves are like mountains and the wind of time tears at you so much more slowly. Or so it seems to me, from what I can guess."  
  
Frodo dissembled a little. He had pondered the essence of elves with Bilbo, sitting before the fire at Bag End, but it was quite another thing to be discussing it with an elf sitting there beside him.  
  
"In your mind, people and places live on for so much longer because time does not take them from you as swiftly;" Frodo told him. "For us, even those things we hold most dearly in our hearts do fade all too soon. I cannot now recall the sound of my father's voice or my mother's hands, though I thought once that I would always remember."  
  
Legolas was silent. He lowered his head for a moment to stare at the water which lapped at the side of the boats, his strange elvish eyes thoughtful, then he looked again to the hobbit. "Forgive me my ignorance, Frodo," he said finally. "I have been told such before, and I knew that change and growth is not in all things and places alike, but this.... I cannot guess what it must be like for those whom the running years o'ertake so easily. I find continually, to my shame, that I know so little about you. Only as I travel with you all do I begin to understand what it must mean to be mortal."  
  
Frodo laughed at the sympathetic tone of the elf's voice. "It is not so bad, Legolas! It all depends upon one's perspective. I find it hard to fathom how the elves could live thousands of years without becoming wretchedly bored by all that goes on around them."  
  
Their conversation was interrupted by a particularly loud snore which emanated from Gimli. The elf cast a fond, withering look at the dwarf sleeping before him. "Never fear of that," he said with a wry smile. "When one is in danger of believing one has seen all that there is to see, always there is something unexpected waiting around the corner."  
  
Frodo held up the phial and let the sunlight sparkle through the glass, casting rainbows over his arms and face. "I hope only that the unexpected does not prove more than we can handle." Frodo bit his lip, and lowered his voice. "Legolas.... Does he follow us still?  
  
Aragorn roused himself at this and exchanged a knowing look with the elf, then turned to Frodo. "Ah! So you know about our little footpad, do you? He padded after us all through Moria and right down to Nimrodel. Legolas and I have tried once or twice to catch him, but he is slyer than a fox and slippery as a fish. I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since we left the Golden Wood, however."  
  
"Nor have I," Legolas murmured. "Though I fear he is not so easily left behind, Frodo. But we are not unaware of him, if that has caused you worry. Your companions are more astute than that, I would hope, or you should have done well to leave us back in Rivendell! I promise you I shall keep sharp eyes out for your shadow."  
  
"Aragorn!" Boromir called from far up ahead. He and the younger hobbits had kept their boat at the forefront, skimming down the river at the lead. Most of the Company were not all that eager to hurry southward despite the dullness of the days; they dreaded the decision they must ultimately make and had no desire to hasten towards the perils that lay beyond, whichever course they took in the end. Yet Boromir was the first to awaken when morning graced the sky and ever he pressed his vessel a little ahead upon the river's current, and each night he was the last to succumb to Aragorn's urgings to stop and camp. Now they had fallen behind the pace set by the son of Denethor once more, and their companion beckoned to them to close the gap.  
  
Aragorn stretched stiffly and buried a yawn with the back of his hand, then reached for his oar. Frodo tucked away the phial once more, carefully padding it amongst his shirts in his pack. As Aragorn dipped the paddle into the flowing river, the Ranger sang:  
  
  
  
Who now can tell, and what harp can accompany  
  
With melodies strange enough, rich enough tunes,  
  
Pale with the magic of cavernous harmony,  
  
Loud with shore-music of beaches and dunes,  
  
How slender his boat; of what glimmering timber;  
  
How her sails were all silvern and taper her mast,  
  
And silver her throat with foam and her limber  
  
Flanks as she swanlike floated past!  
  
  
  
Legolas flicked his vessel forward to match Aragorn's sudden surge of speed and they raced to catch Boromir. Aragorn chuckled and tried to keep up, but the elf's voice echoed back as he coursed easily past them.  
  
  
  
The song I can sing is but shreds one remembers  
  
Of golden imaginings fashioned in sleep,  
  
A whispering tale told by the withering embers  
  
Of old things far off that but few hearts do keep.  
  
  
  
Frodo gripped the sides of their little boat, envying Sam his ability to sleep through almost anything, and he wondered if Earendil had ever gotten seasick.  
  
\----------------------------------  
  
*Excerpts from Tolkien's "The Bidding of the Minstrel fom the Lay of Earendil", The Book of Lost Tales 2, pp 270-271.


	5. The Third Day

He ran faster, his breathing laboured and harsh, and terror permeated his body. He was strong, but the fear and whispering voices were eroding his strength quickly and he knew he would not last. He could not outrun it because the thing, the thing which filled him with loathing and drove his heart to bursting was perched upon his back like a black monster, its misshapen hands digging into him, its clawed feet spurring him on. He was running heedlessly, throwing himself forward blindly through the darkness which surrounded him. He felt something hit him hard in the chest and he stumbled, but continued to flee, and then again and again, he was struck in the arm, and the shoulder. The black thing grew heavier and heavier and as he fell, he caught a glint of gold... of perfect, round gold, spinning in the air before him. He reached out to touch it but found he hadn't the strength to lift his hand. He called, but no one came. A voice whispered in his mind, wary and sad, and he felt the claws in him tighten.  
  
"I am afraid. Simply afraid."  
  
The black thing laughed, a low, mocking laughter, and the sound thrilled through him, shook him to the core. It was his own laughter, cold and detached, ringing in his ears.  
  
\----------------  
  
Boromir rose the next morning as the first pale hint of light was appearing on the eastern horizon. He lifted his head from his bedroll and freed himself from the web of tangled blankets; he slept restlessly these days, though he could not remember his dreams. For weeks now it had become customary for him to awake with a start, often bathed in a cold sweat; he could not for the life of him have said why. He was anxious to return to his home and to his people, and always the worry of responsibility weighed heavily upon him, but this he had borne with him for some time. A sense of urgency now that he drew closer? Perhaps.  
  
Frustration.  
  
He ran a hand over his face, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and cast a glance over at the vague forms of his slumbering companions. Closest to the cold campfire were the hobbits, curled close to one another, feet to head, feet to head, Frodo encircled protectively within the group.  
  
Frodo.  
  
From across the way, Boromir could hear the deep rumbling of the sleeping dwarf and could make out Gimli's solid body buried completely within his blankets, his axe propped near at hand against the trunk of the tree beneath which he rested. Not far from Boromir, Aragorn was wrapped in his grey elven cloak, his long legs stretched out before him. He slept, but even in early light of the dawn the Ranger looked weary and worn. He wondered if Aragorn ever looked any way but thus.  
  
It was the same look his father wore of late, the same look that had been on his face when Boromir had begged leave from the palace to ask for council and the unravelling of hard words in Imladris.  
  
He had found answers. Yet what aid would he bring back to his father, what hope had he to ease that weary look from his face? With empty hand and empty heart would he return and almost he would dread to hear the silver horns from the White Tower calling to Denethor, telling him that his son had returned home to him.  
  
Boromir banished such thoughts and sat there silently upon his bedroll, reluctant to disturb the perfect morning. He glanced up to see the sky begin to grow lighter beyond the branches of the small grove of trees they had chosen for shelter. The trickle of the running water down below filled the air, as did the trilling of a small bird above his head who had also risen early and was calling out its greetings to the sun's first rays. The bird's whistle was met by another, and then another, and then the first called out again, more persistently. One of the halflings murmured at the noise and stirred within his covers; it would not be long ere the others awakened.  
  
He was cold. Boromir leaned over and reached for his pack. He drew forth a warm shirt and shrugged it over stiff shoulders which were not used to the particular effort required to steer and thrust a boat through the force of rushing water. He groaned beneath his breath, then stood and tiptoed softly to the campfire. He picked up a branch of wood from the pile and stirred the ashes. The embers beneath still smouldered, but they were not warm enough to catch fire to the handful of dry leaves and bark he poked beneath. Though they drew nearer to a more temperate climate there was yet a faint touch of frost upon the grass in the mornings and he could still see his breath hang in the air.  
  
Aragorn was roused by the rasp of flint against steel. He cracked open one eye to see Boromir hunched by the fire, cursing the errant flame which would dance upon the tinder teasingly and then waver out. Several times Boromir struck the sparks to life and willed them to catch hold, and several times he scowled and muttered oaths when they died. Aragorn listened to him with some amusement until Boromir did finally manage to coax a fire and set a small, merry blaze flickering over the pile of driftwood. Aragorn let the warmth creep over his numbed legs, then he sat up and bid Boromir a good morning.  
  
"We have yet several days on the river... six days, maybe, to reach Parth Galen," Aragorn said as he pulled his boots onto his feet.  
  
"My body may protest again me for suggesting it, but we could make it in five if we pressed on as fast as we might during the daylight hours, Aragorn."  
  
"We might, yes, but I see no need to hasten at the expense of our strength and our sanity. I, too, feel a certain sense of urgency, Boromir, but we are not yet ready to face what next challenge we may meet; we began this leg of our journey with low spirits and I would not press them on any harder than is necessary. We must not tarry, but neither must we rush headlong into the unknown. I will be content to remain steady and cautious and to reach Amon Hen in six days."  
  
Boromir was silent for a moment, then he nodded and smiled swiftly, humorlessly. "Whatever path we choose, 'tis a path of despair," he muttered. "Perhaps we might have done better to cower in Lorien and wait out the end as the elves have chosen. If the darkness would close in on us never to be lifted, why not cling to whatever light is left until it too has gone out."  
  
Aragorn did not answer. He drew forth his pipe from his belongings and tamped a bit of weed into it, then studiously lit it. He tasted the smoke and let it curl from his tongue. He watched it dissipate into the air, then he turned to Boromir with a look of mild curiosity.  
  
"I worry for you, son of Denethor," he said finally. "You travel with us and yet you distance yourself. You are a brave fighter, my friend, and we have been grateful for your swordhand more than once upon this disheartening quest, but I wonder if you are of the Fellowship or have merely been heading in the same direction."  
  
"You worry for me, Aragorn? Or is it that you worry about me?" Boromir asked cooly.  
  
Aragorn did not answer the question but he held Boromir with a steady gaze.  
  
"Our path will indeed grow darker and none should walk it alone," he replied. "None can walk it alone. You are caught up in the strife and significance of your own life and that of your own people to the point of distraction."  
  
"Aye," Boromir answered, and he sat up straight, his noble face proud. "I worry for my people, and for Gondor. It is foremost in my mind and I see nothing wrong with that. I should think Elendil's heir would assign some importance to the fate of the people of Minas Tirith!"  
  
"I do, Boromir. So do we all, though you may not think it to be so. Fain would I see the White City fall, for it is one of the few strongholds which stands mighty against the forces of the Enemy and its people are as dear to me. But we fight not for the people of Gondor, Boromir. At least, not for them alone. This war we wage has much larger stakes and if we fail, it is not simply the White City which shall fall. Sauron's domination will be complete and perhaps shall never be shaken as long as this world shall last."  
  
"Well do I know this...."  
  
"Do you, my friend? Because you behave as if you alone among us risk losing what you love and it seems as if you do not understand that we are in this together. If we fail, Boromir, the White City shall be no more, and the shadow shall not be satisfied at devouring Gondor. If we fail, the shadow shall spread even to the home of our gentle hobbits upon the far Western shores. Gimli's people beneath the mountain will be destroyed, for no dwarf could ever be enslaved. Legolas's people are doomed to sorrow and change no matter the outcome; if the Dark Lord regains the Ring, they shall fall, and if it is unmade, so too shall they fade and be forgotten. Yet gladly would they suffer their loss to see Sauron defeated once and for all; their strife with the Enemy stretches far beyond our comprehension, Boromir, ere our race walked this world."  
  
"I am no child, Aragorn. Do not speak to me as such!" He lowered his voice when one of the halflings shifted beneath their covers. He stared moodily into the fire for a long moment, then continued. "I understand, and I find it all the more confounding that everything is not being done to aid Gondor in holding back the dark forces. We are all that stands between the might of Mordor and the prize of Middle-earth that it seeks! Why then are we not bound for the White City? What confusion can there be?"  
  
"You seek to fight the war upon a physical front, Boromir, when in fact the threat is much closer. You harbor hope for a triumphant victory upon a field of battle, though you know the might of Gondor has little hope of holding back the might of the Dark Tower or you would not have journeyed so far to seek Rivendell. You sought wisdom, but the wisdom given unto you by Lord Elrond you have shunned. How now, then, would you withstand the power of Mordor? Why are you so eager to return? I believe I know your mind, Boromir, and I fear for you. Sauron is more devious an enemy than a simple commander of orcish armies, else he should have been a passing shadow long since vanquished by the elves. He feeds upon our fears, Boromir, and would play upon our doubts and our faults and our hatred to his advantage. Ever has it been. This little thing which Frodo bears about his neck is not a sword you might pick up from the battlefield to turn upon your foe."  
  
Boromir cast his eyes upon the ground and his jaw tightened. He said naught, but stabbed fiercely at the fire with a branch, refusing to meet Aragorn's gaze.  
  
"It never has been such a weapon," the Ranger said in a low voice. "It is a much subtler instrument. It eats at the mind and soul of whomever it is who carries it and coaxes and nurtures the cruelty and greed which lies in every man's heart. That is why none but the Dark Lord may wield it, for the two are one. It is a magnifier of corruption and only evil can come of it. To wield it and not be mastered by it, you would have to become Sauron. You are loyal, Boromir, to your people and to your father and you yearn to save them, but what would you sacrifice? What would you have others sacrifice?"  
  
Boromir hurled the branch into the fire. "I was told to seek Isildur's Bane."  
  
"Nay. You were told to seek the Sword that was broken. At least, so you said your brother had dreamed."  
  
Boromir bristled. "The dream came to me also! I undertook this journey, not he, for I knew the way would be perilous."  
  
"Perilous indeed," Aragorn murmured.  
  
"Would you save them then, Aragorn?" Boromir whispered. "Do you believe you could do more? I would give my life for Gondor. Do you believe that you are our salvation? Forgive me, but I see it not. It shall take more than one man bearing a sword to save my people."  
  
"Aye, it shall, Boromir. And it shall take more than a band of gold upon your finger. It is too easy, Boromir. It is false hope. Do you think that you are the only one to whom it calls? We each feel its presence and that it is the reason I am at once anxious to press on and loth to do so. We are all at risk, being so near Frodo, and I know not where our road shall take us. I am not Gandalf, though I have tried to lead you as best and as wisely as I could. For all my effort the Fellowship is in jeopardy, my friend, and I speak not of spying eyes from Mordor nor orcs lurking in the forest, and the longer we tarry the worse it shall become. We shall need your help.  
  
Take a look around you, Boromir. Our Company has been forged of the best and bravest of each race. Think you it came about by chance? A mere whim of the Lord of Imladris? We cannot allow our differences to break us. All must unite or we shall fall, and I speak not simply of this Fellowship but of all the Free Peoples. This isn't any one man's war, Boromir. Should we be divided between races, between friends, between kin, then he shall conquer. If we are to succeed in saving Minas Tirith, in saving Middle- earth, the battle shall be fought and won during these small moments where no trumpets shall ring and for which no songs will be sung. The most difficult victories come without glory. It shall be our own prejudices, our own fear, our own hatred we must overcome. We will prevail, Boromir."  
  
Boromir licked his lips and swallowed hard. "How can you be so certain, Aragorn?"  
  
The Ranger blew a long, thin stream of smoke into the air. "I cannot," he replied. "But I have faith."  
  
\--------------------  
  
  
  
Pippin moaned and ignored the intrusive jab to his ribs. A harder jab caught him below the sternum accompanied by Merry's voice and he ignored that too. His eyes refused to open. The ground was so nice and firm beneath him... no water, no boat rocking back and forth. He would just stay there and they could come back for him later.  
  
He made the mistake of turning over to his side and found that the ground had been a little too nice and firm and that he had slept the entire night with a tree-root digging into his back. He gasped as the pain shot up his spine and ruined any notion of sleeping late. He cast off his blankets with a sigh. After a prolonged fight to pull on his clothing, he stalked to the small cookfire with an odd gait and one shoulder hunched higher than the other. He bid a surly good morning to his companions who had, to his further annoyance, started breakfast without him. He was tempted to return to bed, tree-root and all.  
  
It was not shaping up to be any better a start to the day for Gimli son of Gloin. He had gone to bed with a dragon of a headache such as he had never experienced without at least the pleasure of a night's heavy drinking first, and he had woken to find that his head throbbed no less than it had ere he rested.  
  
Legolas had informed him the previous evening, with an arch of an elegant eyebrow and in as supercilious a manner as only an elf could manage, that if the dwarf was daft enough to fall asleep in the sun, his headache was no one's fault but his own.  
  
The only pleasure Gimli could find in this particular morning was that Legolas had been wrong; had it been merely sunstroke it would have left him by now.  
  
If he died from it, he hoped the elf would live out the rest of his everlasting life wracked with guilt.  
  
He laughed to himself, then groaned when the ringing in his ears grew louder; he buried his aching head in his hands and waved off Sam's attempt to shove food at him. When the pain subsided a little he cast a glance around the fire at his bleary-eyed companions. The hobbits were unabashedly tucking into breakfast; Aragorn was heating water over the fire; Boromir had a dagger in hand and was staring into the burnished metal of his shield and dragging the blade smoothly over the stubble of his jowls with a single-minded concentration. Frodo and Sam were chatting quietly, but for the most part the Company seemed subdued. Gimli rubbed the back of his neck, then straightened. He was looking for the elf, hoping to let loose a few choice remarks he had been rehearsing during the long, sleepless hours of the night, but Legolas was not there.  
  
The elf had taken the last watch and Gimli knew he was lingering nearby, down by the river or hanging from a tree off in the forest or some such thing, but he had not yet returned to them.  
  
Gimli felt disappointed. And then felt foolish for feeling disappointed. More and more he had grown used to having the tall elf near him, and now he found himself turning to say something to him even when he was not there.  
  
At first he had stayed close to Legolas to keep an eye on him, since the rest of the Fellowship seemed to have no qualms at having him as a companion. "Never trust an elf." 'Twas an adage Gloin had repeated to him since he was old enough to travel with his father and his cousins to Esgaroth for business and trade, and he found still that the words sounded faintly ever in his mind when he looked upon any elf, even Legolas.  
  
And now he waited for him to return and felt troubled by the elf's absence. He could not explain why it was so, but the elf put him at ease. He was someone to whom he could talk, even if their conversations had consisted mostly of guarded jibes. Boromir and Aragorn shared a common heritage; the halflings were bonded by ties of friendship and family. Though they were worlds apart, the realm of Thranduil and Dain's kingdom were less than a week's march from one another. Having Legolas in the Fellowship had set Gimli's teeth on edge, but at least the wood elf had been a familiar foe.  
  
And now he was a familiar friend. So much had changed in such a short time, it seemed. It was Gimli who had suggested the two share a boat out of Lothlorien.  
  
His father's beard would have withered and fallen off at the notion.  
  
Gimli sighed heavily, and then a steaming cup of tea was placed into his hands. He caught the bright, pungent smell of peppermint and he looked up into Aragorn's concerned face.  
  
"Drink. It may help. If it worsens, Gimli, let me know." Gimli accepted it with a nod and sipped at the hot liquid gratefully.  
  
It did help him to forget his headache, though perhaps not in the manner he had hoped. An emphatic yelp from behind the dwarf caused him to jump and the tea to spill, and his scalded hand was more than enough to distract his attention from his throbbing head. He put his burned fingers to his mouth and turned to watch as Pippin was accosted on his way back to his bedroll and was smoothly wrenched upright and unkinked by Aragorn. The dwarf smiled despite his own misery as the little hobbit straightened and cast a look of simultaneous relief and offense at the much taller Ranger. Aragorn regarded the halfling respectively, only the very merest traces of amusement playing about his lips, and he clapped Pippin on the back.  
  
"Boromir and Merry shall thank me at least, Peregrin Took, for sparing them a long day's journey with a hobbled hobbit."  
  
Gimli chuckled. The days of their journey had been hard and swift, and the Companions cared for each other in simple, individual ways. One stirred the fire in the morning. Another caught game or fished for fresh meat to eat. One gathered wood. One prepared the meals. Another would wash clothing or hang their cloaks to dry while another one had a talent for finding perfect campsites. Every little task they performed conveyed the bond that had inevitably grown between them and they were comfortable with one another. It was the way it should be and Gimli took no greater pleasure than he did in these quiet mornings when time was not yet pressing and they could take joy in simply belonging.  
  
The hurt behind his eyes persisted. It drew him away from his reflections and he grimaced.  
  
"The pain has not left you, then?" a voice asked softly.  
  
Gimli shifted to see that Legolas had returned and stood now before him, flicking water from his hands. The elf set Gimli's replenished water flask at his feet and searched the dwarf's face.  
  
At least he had the decency to look concerned, Gimli thought. However, any witty rejoinders the dwarf had been considering had vanished from his mind now. He looked at Legolas and found he had not the energy to bandy words with the elf. He simply shook his head and drank his tea. Legolas sat on the ground beside him with his long legs folded beneath him and he accepted a bite of waybread offered to him by Sam. Gimli felt the elf's bright eyes fixed upon him and he wanted to speak to him, to tell him he would be fine if he could but rest a little.  
  
He tried, but when he looked at the elf the thrum in his ears was unmerciful.  
  
"Gimli?"  
  
Gimli regarded the elf detachedly and it seemed for just an instant as if a stranger sat before him. His vision was oddly blurred and he furrowed his brow. Never trust an elf... An elf... never.  
  
"Gimli?" Legolas swivelled, leaning upon one arm and looking at him intently. "Gimli, my friend, you are positively white! Aragorn...?"  
  
Gimli winced. The elf's gentle voice pierced his mind and sent shocks through him that made his teeth ache. He growled at him not to call Aragorn, that he would recover, but the Ranger was already striding towards him and the dwarf was subjected to several moments of scrutiny and examination. Aragorn's fingers touched gently the soft flesh at his temples and his grey eyes peered into Gimli's dark brown ones.  
  
"'Tis nothing, Aragorn!" Gimli murmured. "You concern yourself over nothing. I will be well. Leave me be."  
  
Aragorn regarded him long, and then nodded reluctantly. "You are to take your ease today and not burden yourself with any effort. Legolas shall take up the oars, if he will, and I would have you settle in your boat and do naught but rest."  
  
Gimli nodded. Aragorn's tone suggested that he would brook no argument, and Gimli accepted his orders without comment, a sure sign to Aragorn that the dwarf was indeed feeling poorly.  
  
Gimli chanced a swift glance at his elven companion crouched near him and saw Legolas nod at Aragorn's words.  
  
He narrowed his eyes.  
  
Did the elf look as if he were amused?  
  
No. Legolas turned back and Gimli caught sight of the strong, fair face, pale with concern for him, seeming paler in contrast to the black hair tucked back behind the delicately pointed ears; it was a face he had come to know so well and every detail of the elf's features became suddenly painfully clear and sharp to him.  
  
Aragorn called to the others and they roused themselves to prepare for the day's journey. Legolas gathered his belongings and Gimli's.  
  
Gimli stared at the elf... watched him move through the camp. The elf quenched the fire, smothered the smoke with sand, then paced over to kneel and roll together the dwarf's blankets.  
  
Legolas stretched out his hand and gripped the haft of Gimli's axe and lifted it from its resting spot by the tree. He hefted it up with a graceful sweep and cradled it in his arms.  
  
Gimli's heart surged; he could feel it thudding within his breast, matching the rhythm of the pounding of his head, and he flinched. For a moment, for the briefest moment, he was filled with the impression, nay, the certainty that the elf was about to attack him.  
  
He saw the elf turn lightly upon his heel, caught the slight flex of the archer's muscled forearm, the steeling of his leaf-green eyes. The elf's grip had tightened about the axe, ever so subtly, he was sure of it, but then elves were subtle creatures, and their thoughts were oft strange.... It was all Gimli could do to keep from hurling himself backward to find cover and seeking a weapon himself. His instincts screamed at him and he clenched his fists at his side in agitation and sweat sprang upon his brow. But it was Legolas! It was Legolas. He could not move, could not speak. He was filled with a frenzy of clashing emotions and he wondered that the elf could not see it, wondered that the whole Company could not see it.  
  
*....wondered why he did not simply leap at the elf... grab his knife... grab it and slit that slender throat... never trust an elf....*  
  
Gimli's closed his eyes tightly and shuddered violently, and he thrust the idea from his mind. The ache in his head and in his chest increased and he could have wept.  
  
Legolas approached him and pressed the axe into Gimli's hand. His eyes were once again familiar and filled with worry for the dwarf who sat ashen and shaking from the pain in his head, and he touched his friend's shoulder solicitously.  
  
The tension drained from Gimli. His face burned with shame and confusion. He could not meet Legolas's gaze. It hurt to look at him. He stood up abruptly, irritated at himself, and irritated at Legolas, though he knew it was unreasonable. He took his weapon from the elf and turned his back upon him. He felt Legolas stiffen behind him, knew that he had opened his mouth to speak, but Gimli walked away and did not give him the chance.  
  
They left the grove and came down to the shore where they had moored their boats. Merry and Pippin once again huddled before Boromir in their small vessel and Frodo and Sam were with Aragorn.  
  
Gimli picked his way over the rocky riverbank with Legolas hovering at his side. The elf lifted the edge of their boat with an easy effort and shoved it into the shoals. He sprang lightly over the side and balanced there, then steadied the boat for his companion. Gimli waded out and clambered over the bulwark, feeling the vessel sink lower in the water at the weight of him, armored and solid, and he settled before the elf with his arms folded over his chest, his hood pulled low over his face.  
  
The dwarf wondered that the boat was not foundered by the very heaviness of his thoughts that morning.  
  
\----------  
  
Gollum tore into the fish with sharp white teeth, slavering and biting. His thin fingers dug into the slippery, white flesh stripped from the scales, gripping it, squeezing it. He watched from the shadows along the eastern shores, seeing the faint flickering of their campfire within the trees upon the opposite side. He cursed the sun as it crept over the horizon, cursed its light, and he scuttled back further beneath the sparse foliage. He waited, sucking the meat from the bones with relish and licking his thin lips.  
  
He froze. He watched as the elf stepped from the trees and walk to the shore upstream from where their boats lay nestled in the sand. The elf moved lightly along the river's edge, seemingly absorbed in his thoughts. Gollum knew better. He knew the elf was always watching, always alert, his nasty, piercing eyes catching the smallest movements, the slightest twitch, and so he stayed still, very still, strings of fish dangling from his mouth and his fingers, and he didn't move, not one bit.  
  
The elf knelt by the water's edge and held a leather bottle beneath the surface, letting it fill; still, Gollum did not move. The elf stood and paced back along the riverbank and disappeared back into the trees. Gollum remained motionless for a very long time, waiting, watching with wide staring eyes until he felt safe that the elf was not coming back.  
  
He chortled and choked. For so long he had waited and he thought himself lost, would have been lost, but he had felt it at last. It called to him, it did, and he left his hiding place to come for it, and had found them again. They had taken to the river, and an easier road to follow there could not be. Follow he had and he had found them and was near them once again.  
  
He gulped down the last of the fish and laved his hands clean. The sky grew brighter and he crouched low, squinting between branch and leaf to watch them abandon their camp and return to their boats. His eyes gleamed as they fell upon the hobbit wading into the water.  
  
\------------  
  
Deagol had not let him touch it, had not even let him see it after that first glimpse. He had crouched upon the shore with the pretty golden thing cupped in his hands and gazed in wonder at it.  
  
His cousin's voice had been high and thin and almost he did not recognize it. "I'm keeping it, Smeagol! I found it, after all!" Deagol had cast him a look of pure malice and he pressed his treasure to him, coveting it, cradling it. Smeagol felt rage gnaw at his heart.  
  
It wasn't fair. He had practically saved him from drowning, had hauled him up from the deep, dark pool and it was only by chance that Deagol had found it. It could have been his. It should have been his. The least Deagol could have done was let him hold it for a bit. Just for a while. It was his birthday. Deagol should have given it to him.  
  
He had grasped at Deagol with clinging hands, meaning only to grab him and turn him about, but his fingers had dug into his flesh so easily, with such a terrible strength, and he had squeezed... squeezed until Deagol ceased to fight him, squeezed until the pretty golden thing fell from his limp hand, squeezed until the light, the magic, disappeared from his cousin's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: Mmm... suddenly I'm hungry for fish. Raw stuff. The juicy kind. I... ACK! Therein lies the danger of stepping into certain characters' minds!
> 
> Thanks for the reviews, all. I bide my time this way waiting for Thundera Tiger's next chapter, and for Camilla to round up her muse. ... Did she just threaten to KICK me? Wh-ELL! Threaten me and I shall crush you like this paper cup! *urgh, ack, ugh* ...Smithers, crush this for me. ; )
> 
> A few other things.... My moldy book of riddles which will come into play here in just a little bit is called just that... "An Anglo-Saxon Book of Riddles." So much for creativity, huh, Amara?
> 
> In reply to Preciouss... no. I don't come up with any of my fiction myself, it is dictated to me by my cat. If my fiction sucks, let's just blame her. ; )
> 
> Fairyboy, thank you for the compliments! There be no slash here, though. Oh, of course I'm DYING to smack the dwarf and elf upside the head and tell them they're meant to be together for all eternity, but at this point in the story, they're still just learning to stand one another. And doing a lousy job of it, by the looks of this last chapter. That sort of intimacy won't show up in this tale but our boys will be dealing with some other rather heavy emotional issues. Elf and dwarf psychosis.
> 
> I adore Legolas and Gimli, but Gollum is a great character and I always felt somewhat sorry for him, despite the nasty little thing he sometimes is, so I'm tossing him into this mix as well.
> 
> ...Alright... so I just like to type out the prolonged "sssss"es. Whatever. I like Gollum.)


	6. The Shifting Currents

"I have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them."  
  
Frodo remembered warm, lazy evenings curled up in Bilbo's study at Bag End with a cup of tea steaming in his hand and his feet stretched out before the fire. He recalled laughing at his uncle's uncharitable opinion about being whisked away upon strange roads with strange companions as he pored over the passages of the dog-eared book which lay open in his lap. When idle time allowed he would settle in with the Red Book and lose himself within its story, more often than not succumbing to the temptation to breeze beyond the first few pages to get to the exciting bits, to find elves and dragons and the dark things which dwelt in caves, to read of swords and spiders and battle. Adventure? It was the most wonderful thing there could be. It was far-off lands and fantastic folk; it was happy endings and songs sung of great deeds and heroes who could never die. So it had seemed to Frodo when he sat before the fire in the safety of Bag End and dreamed, and the young hobbit had longed for adventure from the humble reaches of the Shire more than anything he could imagine.  
  
It was the fourth day of their journey down the Anduin and Frodo had been given more than enough time to reflect upon the foolish notions of his early years. He thought of how these bleak days might look upon a written page, imagined himself swallowing the uncertainty and fear and misgivings which stretched the minutes into the longest of hours, the hours into interminable days. He would shorten them, certainly, and perhaps compress this bit of their journey into a brief few pages, and even so, he was certain this would be the part of the adventure any reader would breeze past in search of some more impressive passage, some greater event. Frodo wished he could do just that, wished he might take up the pages of his life which were unfolding there and now and thumb ahead to whatever awaited him beyond.  
  
He could find nothing to dispute about Bilbo's assertion about adventure; if anything, his dear uncle had been too lenient.  
  
This journey was indeed uncomfortable.  
  
Hobbits hated the water. At least, the sane ones did. Frodo's feet were continually wet and he found out quite quickly that even a sleek elven boat was no better able to keep the water from sloshing about their toes any more than the most hastily constructed raft built by any hobbit child of the Marish on the banks of the Brandywine. Boats leaked, and that was that.  
  
The trip was nasty.  
  
As they journeyed southward, the trees had finally shunned the land and had given way to bleak and bare countryside. They had come to the Brown Lands that lay vast and desolate between Southern Mirkwood and the hills of Emyn Muil. On the eastern bank to their left they saw long formless slopes stretching up and away toward the sky; brown and withered they looked, as if fire had passed over them, leaving no living blade of green: an unfriendly waste without even a broken tree or a bold stone to relieve the emptiness.  
  
Upon the west to their right the land was treeless also, but it was flat, and in many places green with wide plains of grass. On this side of the river they passed forests of great reeds, so tall that they shut out all view as the little boats went rustling by along their fluttering borders. Their dark withered plumes bent and tossed in the light cold airs, hissing softly and sadly.  
  
If the change in their view was not enough to quell Frodo's spirits, the weather alternated between being unbearably hot and miserably wet, often switching from one to the other in the space of an hour until almost Frodo wished they were back in Moria. The caves of the fallen dwarven kingdom might have been dark and terrible, but at the very least there had been no threat of a sudden deluge from the changeable skies or the confounded nuisance of consistently wet feet.  
  
Even as he touched lightly upon the memory of Moria, his grief for Gandalf flooded through him once again and Frodo's heart trembled. He could picture the old wizard sitting complacently in a grey boat of Lorien, the rain dripping over the brim of his hat and of the sharp point of his long nose, grumbling over the lack of a good pipe and warm feet; yet the spark of laughter and life in his eyes would never have been quelled by such a small annoyance as a dismal river trip. If he could have seen Frodo's misery now, he would have no doubt given the hobbit a look of supreme disapproval from under those bushy eyebrows. Frodo could almost hear Gandalf's voice lecturing him and he straightened a little at the thought and smiled sadly. They had been able to forget their grief in Lothlorien as they took their ease amongst the elves, but here back in the wilderlands Frodo was painfully aware of the lack of the old wizard's presence in the Company.  
  
For of late, their journey had also become disturbing. The hobbit wished more than ever that Gandalf were here to set things right because Frodo was not even altogether certain when they had gone wrong.  
  
There was no speech and little laughter in any of the boats, and it was no longer the reflective, comfortable silence between friends who needed no reassurance of one another's presence; it was an audible silence filled with unspoken words and dark thoughts and it thundered in their ears, drowning out even the constant rush of the river which carried them along.  
  
Those who were still on speaking terms with one another dwelt upon their own discomfort and were just as miserable as Frodo, in which case sharing their thoughts would have served to compound their dismal mood rather than alleviate it, and so they did not speak. Aragorn had said naught since they had broken camp that morning except to give them instructions for navigating the much broader and shallower river and to warn them to care for the gravel-shoals that would beach them if they were inattentive. The Ranger was watchful but seemed disinclined towards any kind of cheerful conversation.  
  
And so they did not speak.  
  
Boromir had sunken into a black state and kept his vessel subtly but noticably apart from the others, now bringing up the rear rather than taking the lead. He did not seem angry, nor did he join in grumbling and complaining about the state of his sodden clothing and weary aches with Merry and Pippin when the silence of travelling with the reticent man of Gondor became too much for the talkative young hobbits. He had simply withdrawn; Boromir did not speak lest he was spoken to, and then it seemed an effort for him to fashion any reply beyond a nod of his head or vague murmur.  
  
Frodo found his gaze wandering often to Boromir behind them in the last boat. Sometimes he thought he heard Boromir call out to him and he would look over his shoulder, only to feel a fool when he found their companion had not stirred nor breathed a word, though more often that not Frodo was disconcerted to turn and find Boromir watching him too.  
  
He was uneasy but not surprised, for he had caught something of his conversation with Aragorn the morning before when the men had thought the hobbits all asleep. He had listened guiltily to the frank discussion from beneath his blankets, but had learned nothing he did not already know.  
  
How could he not read Boromir's mind in every glance the man cast his way, in the manner of his speech and the change in his behaviour whenever Frodo drew near? Restlessness and doubt ever plagued Denethor's heir since he had come to Rivendell, and quite likely ere he left Minas Tirith. His anxiety for his city and its defense consumed him, but now, rather than try to disguise his frustration with the jovial bravado he displayed for the Company or the careful politeness around Frodo to which they had become accustomed, Boromir had withdrawn completely and there was naught any of them could do to coax him from his dark thoughts. He no longer strove to lead their group along the river's way; his fire had burned low, though the embers of his deep-seated passions still glowed in his solemn eyes.  
  
And so they did not speak.  
  
As uncomfortable Frodo found Boromir's pensive brooding to be, it was yet far easier to tolerate than the suddenly volitile relationship that had seethed to the surface between two other members of their Company. Interminable hours in a canoe had taken their toll upon each of them, and such confinement was enough to try even the most patient of elves, the most tolerant of dwarves.  
  
Legolas and Gimli were respectively neither and any measure of forbearance they might have had seemed long since exhausted.  
  
Gimli had been ill since the morning of the third day. Frodo had watched the dwarf move slowly about the campsite and collapse into the boat with Legolas; he had watched Legolas visibly fretting over the dwarf's malady, and though the hobbit had felt sympathy for Gimli's pain, the care and concern of one friend for the other had caused Frodo to marvel at the difference of their relationship from earlier days.  
  
Their stay in Lothlorien had been not for naught in this respect; for the first time upon this journey the Company had taken their ease in a place of peace and protection where they could let down their guard and rest without fear or worry. Though they had travelled far together, they had walked through peril and fire and had banded together out of necessity in order to survive. Within the Golden Wood, however, they were allowed to be at peace and many of the Fellowship had found themselves seeking the familiar presence of their companions now because they wished it, not because it was needed. Lorien was not a place of isolation; though a quiet haven, its paths and byways and beauty were meant to be shared. The Company had drawn closer to one another and in Lorien their hearts were strengthened, and most curious to those who witnessed it was the evolving relationship of Gimli and Legolas.  
  
The elf and the dwarf were no longer able to disguise their growing friendship as a barely tolerable imposition for the sake of the quest. After a few days of feigning relief at not having to put up with one another, Legolas had found himself reluctantly yearning to show to Gimli the sights of Lorien and delighted at the dwarf's sudden interest. Gimli, immersed as he was in elvish land and custom, grudgingly found himself seeking the elf to engage him in questions and conversation. It had been an unspoken truce, but there could be no excuse for it now but for them to admit that they had grown used to one another and missed the other when he was not around. They had stoically ignored the smiles behind their backs and surrendered to the friendship that was inevitably growing between them. The two were never far apart now, though Gimli would sooner have recited elvish love poetry to the Lady Galadriel than use the word "fond" when it came to describing how he felt about Legolas.  
  
Perhaps of all the loyalty and courage his companions had shown thus far, this most of all had lifted Frodo's heart and bolstered his confidence that Elrond's faith in the Company had not been misplaced. The strength of his companions in battle and darkness was remarkable, but in Lorien they proved to be a Fellowship in spirit as well as in deed to the extent that elf and dwarf should walk together in friendship beneath the golden boughs. Regardless of their uncertainty at the moment about where their path should now lead them, Frodo had been certain they could do what needed to be done and he had left Lorien with regret, but great hope.  
  
  
  
"By the shine of Durin's axe and the Eternal eyes of Aule! If you sing one more note, elf, I will capsize this cursed boat and drown your voice in cold water."  
  
  
  
Most of that confidence had now since been leeched from Frodo by the drizzling rain and the tempest of bitter words which had been brewing steadily between Legolas and Gimli during this interminable trip down the river.  
  
Frodo felt his spirit sink down to his toes and he reluctantly lifted his eyes to look at the elf and the dwarf. He cringed and waited for the caustic reply which was certain to follow Gimli's outburst and felt Sam beside him let out a weary sigh.  
  
Legolas ceased the soft, wordless song he had been singing to himself at the height of the afternoon and he made a noise deep in the back of his throat. He laid down the paddle he was holding and fixed Gimli with frosty, appraising eyes.  
  
"Tell me, Master Dwarf... if you did so, which of us would find the bottom first, do you think? I grant you that your stature does not mark you as a significant presence in this boat, but taking into account the veritable ironworks you insist upon carrying about at your belt and upon your back, I think I should be the one to come out on top, as it were." The elf shifted and the canoe dipped to the side ever so slightly. "Now, pray tell me... would it be my voice you object to, or the song? If it be the latter, I know several verses pertaining to the battle of Sarn Athrad which I find to be rather diverting, if not positively suggestive."  
  
Gimli looked well. Yesterday they had watched over the dwarf with great concern and he had rested before Legolas in their boat and spoke little and ate nothing. They had halted early that evening and Gimli had fallen into a deep sleep as soon as he had laid his head upon his bedroll. This morning the colour had returned to his face and the dwarf had waved off Aragorn with good-natured gruffness and had assured him that he had recovered. Indeed, it seemed that he had; he joined them at breakfast with a hearty appetite and a cheerful tongue.  
  
But there had been a haunted and wary look which came into his eyes when he thought no one was watching, and what was more, he inexplicably refused to acknowledge Legolas's presence. He neither spoke nor looked to the elf all morning, not even as they prepared to depart.  
  
Legolas was dismayed at the dwarf's behaviour and strove to break the silence as they guided their boat into the flowing stream once more, but still Gimli remained coldly indifferent. Never one to back down from a challenge, the light-hearted elf persisted upon drawing his friend from his gloominess and grew irritable in his turn when his efforts failed. The compassion and passivity he had shown towards the dwarf during Gimli's illness swiftly eroded. Gimli grew angry and the elf's temper flared as too many unwarranted verbal jabs took their toll, and by mid-morning they were barking at one another and hissing insults under their breath which might as well have been shouted out loud given the silence which surrounded the rest of the boats. Their strife aggravated nerves already stretched thin.  
  
"Keep your head from the clouds, elf, and heed the water," the dwarf spat, and he dug his paddle deeply into the river and thrust viciously, out of rhythm with Legolas's measured strokes.  
  
There was a sound of rock scraping wood and their vessel heeled in the stream. Aragorn slowed to avoid a collision, and Legolas cursed as he used his paddle to pole away from the bank of sand which breached the water and had caught their keel. He cast them back into the current and snapped, "You need not concern yourself with me, Master Dwarf! Heed your tongue, rather, and make use of what little intelligence granted to you."  
  
Always the elf and dwarf had resorted to jesting jibes to span the gap of prejudice and long-standing differences which separated them, but ever had there been a flicker of amusement in Legolas's eyes, a mocking indignation in Gimli's voice as they competed with one another in their game of creative disrespect. Now their attitudes bordered upon malice and their words dripped with spite that was neither amusing nor assumed.  
  
"We shall change places when next we halt," Gimli demanded.  
  
"For what reason?"  
  
"I trust you not at my back, elf."  
  
"I am not of the craven Naugrim. You would see your death in my eyes if I wished it to be so, or would if you could hope to rise above your petty existence to look so high."  
  
"Easily could I break you down from your lofty heights, Master Elf."  
  
"Have no illusions as to how long you would live if you tried."  
  
Gimli shifted and hurled his oar to the floor of the boat, his face dark with gathering rage. Harried beyond his patience, Aragorn interrupted.  
  
"Legolas! You waste your energy and our time with this senseless arguing. Gimli, you will say no more!"  
  
Gimli straightened with a belligerent set to his shoulders but swallowed his retort at the flash of Aragorn's hard eyes. He settled back with a grunt and dismissed Legolas, Aragorn, all of them, with a jerk of his hand and a curl of his lip. Legolas gripped his oar, his jaw clenched tightly, and he refused to meet Aragorn's gaze. The elf pressed their boat forward and took the lead.  
  
Surrounded by this hostility and sundered trust, Frodo yearned for the easy rapport they once held. Almost he would say they had fallen back on old ways, but even the start of this miserable journey had never been this tense and frightening. He huddled in his boat and closed his eyes to Boromir's intensity, Aragorn's troubled mind and the bitterness between Legolas and Gimli, only to discover that the tension which surrounded him became more tangible when he could not see it; he could smell it, feel it, like the air gathering before a storm, like stirring ripples warning of troubled waters ahead.  
  
And so they passed the hours, suspended between the pages of a rousing adventure in the tedious part of the journey which would never be mentioned if any were to write about it, Frodo thought wryly. What would they write? That the companions who had passed through the fire and shadow of Moria and braved dangers insurmountable to get this far now fought one another? That they had become their own worst enemy? A wholly unimpressive part of the story and not one befitting a proper heroic tale.  
  
It was a painful thing to realize, but the past day and a half had shaken Frodo's trust in those who had sworn to protect him. He had feared for them at first, but loathe as he was to admit it, he had now begun to almost fear them. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by a notion that he was in the midst of strangers and he felt bereft, terribly alone and abandoned and he wanted to shout at them himself, to roar and rage and howl against the unfairness of it all.  
  
  
  
Had he known just how far they would fall, Frodo would have left the Company in Lothlorien, beneath the peace of the eaves of the fading forest. This would be the sorest trial any of them would have to face; the Enemy never came so close to defeating the Fellowship as it did upon that tedious trip down the Anduin.  
  
\------------------  
  
  
  
Frodo sighed heavily. Sam lifted his head at the sound and roused himself from a pleasant daydream involving the Golden Perch and a bottomless flagon of ale to look anxiously at his master. Frodo gave him a reassuring smile despite his discouraging thoughts, then turned his attention to the western bank to ponder the passing landscape ere the worry in his eyes could betray him.  
  
There was no sign of living moving things, save birds. Of these there were many: small fowl whistling and piping in the reeds, but they were seldom seen. Once or twice the travellers heard the rush and whine of swan-wings, and looking up they saw a great phalanx streaming along the sky.  
  
"Swans!" Sam said. "And mighty big ones too!"  
  
"Yes," said Aragorn, "and they are black swans."  
  
"How wide and empty and mournful all this country looks!" said Frodo, more to keep the Ranger talking than anything. "I always imagined that as one journeyed south it got warmer and merrier, until winter was left behind forever."  
  
"But we have not journeyed far south yet," answered Aragorn. "It is still winter, and we are far from the sea. Here the world is cold until the sudden spring, and we may yet have snow again. Far away down in the Bay of Belfalas, to which Anduin runs, it is warm and merry, maybe, or would be but for the Enemy. But here we are not above sixty leagues, I guess, south of the Southfarthing away in your Shire, hundreds of long miles yonder. You are looking now south-west across the north plains of the Riddermark, Rohan the land of the Horse-lords. Ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Limlight that runs down from Fangorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan; and of old all that lay between Limlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It is a rich and pleasant land, and its grass has no rival; but in these evil days folk do not dwell by the Great River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the orcs can shoot their arrows far across the stream; and of late, it is said, they have dared to cross the water and raid the herds and studs of Rohan."  
  
Sam looked from bank to bank uneasily. The trees had seemed hostile to him before, as if they harboured secret eyes and lurking dangers; now he wished that the trees were still there. He felt that the Company was too naked, afloat in the little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands, and on a river that was the frontier of war.  
  
Sam looked ahead to see Legolas's boat gliding along quietly before them. Aragorn had flicked his oar and eased them forward in some fit of restlessness, and they drew parallel to the elf and dwarf. Gimli sat motionless within, his glittering eyes fixed upon the water. The elf was gazing off to the side at the shore sadly, wistfully.  
  
Sam reckoned Legolas must miss the trees too, being a Wood-elf and all. The gentle heart of Samwise Gamgee had been most distressed by the conflict between elf and dwarf and thought it foolishness indeed. He would have piped up about it if Gimli hadn't looked quite so dark and Legolas so grave, and if Frodo had not shook his head at him and motioned for him to be still. Sam could see no reason for the marked change in the mood of the Fellowship, but there was more going on here than he could grasp and he thought it best to be quiet until he understood what it was.  
  
His master was lost in thought and Aragorn had gone back to guiding their boat through the sliding water. Sam was cramped and miserable, having nothing to do but stare at the lands crawling by and the grey water on either side of him. Even when the paddles were in use they didn't trust Sam with one. The desperate boredom made him restless. Sam cast about, seeking a diversion, and valiantly decided to take it upon himself to see if he couldn't cheer up Legolas.  
  
He fished around in his pack and came up with a map he had scrawled upon a sheaf of paper during an idle evening by the campfire back in Hollin a lifetime ago, after Frodo had teased him lightly for mistaking Redhorn for Mount Doom. Maps were Frodo's delight but they meant nothing to Sam and he had paid little attention to them in Rivendell when others in the company had pored and plotted over the journey laid out before them. He had occupied himself that night with a bit of charcoal and Aragorn's help and had fashioned a crude map which he kept tucked away with his cooking supplies.  
  
He traced his shaky line representing the Great River with one finger, ignoring the hole he had gouged near the Misty Mountains when Pippin had jostled his arm during the map's creation, and followed it downwards, past the Old Ford, along the Gladden Fields. He lingered at Lorien, smudging the charcoal blotches which had represented trees with the edge of his thumb, then dragged a fingertip to the Limlight and to the Bay of Belfalas as Aragorn had described. It seemed a right good distance away to Sam. He retraced the Anduin's path back to where it now currently carried them along, then poked at the eastern side of the river at the wide patch of parchment at the left that he had marked 'Mirkwood.'  
  
Sam pursed his lips and thrummed his fingers upon his knee. He shifted and squirmed until he was leaning as much as he dared over the bulwark, then screwed up his courage to speak to the elf in the boat beside him.  
  
It wasn't exactly as if he were afraid of Legolas. He counted Legolas a good friend and companion; it was just that Sam had spent so much time in his early years imagining what the elves would be like and he could not quite shake his awkwardness at being around them now. Of all the legends that he had heard and fragments of tales and half-remembered stories as the hobbits knew, those about the elves had always moved him most deeply and though the stories had become reality now and he had been tossed smack dab into the middle of one, he felt distinctly out of his element travelling with the Fellowship. Ever was he in awe of the way Frodo handled himself around people of importance and how he could find just the right things to say when speaking to such folk as wizards and dwarves and elves, but Samwise still found himself tongue-tied when trying to string together the proper words. He could not help feeling as if he was presuming much to strike up a conversation with the elf in their party, being the simple hobbit he was, and had never spoken much to Legolas as such.  
  
But drastic times call for drastic measures, his Gaffer had said to him many a time, though usually the old hobbit had been referring to a particularly stubborn stone in his garden or a vegetable blight, and not to a sulking elf. Nevertheless, Sam smoothed the creases from his map and lifted it. He straightened it with an exaggerated movement and he loudly cleared his throat, trying to catch the attention of their usually sharply attentive companion.  
  
Legolas did not look up. Sam craned his head sideways with painfully obvious subtlety to study the elf's strange, distant eyes. Legolas continued to sweep the water with steady strokes, but otherwise did not stir.  
  
Sam frowned and wondered whether maybe Legolas was sleeping. He had gathered by now after months of having Legolas around and taking turns at setting a guard over their camp each night that sleep meant one thing to a hobbit and entirely another to an elf, though he hadn't quite figured out the mechanics of elvish sleep. Unnatural it was, and beyond Sam's reckoning and he had given up trying to understand how anyone could get a decent night's rest with their eyes wide open to the darkness, but he certainly had never mentioned it to the elf and wasn't about to.  
  
It did seem queer to him, however, that Legolas might be sleeping and paddling a boat at the same time. Though Sam was a properly sane hobbit and knew next to nothing about navigating a canoe in deep water, it seemed to him too complicated a task for even an elf to accomplish when not fully conscious. He pondered that for a moment, then shrugged aside his speculations and decided that Legolas must be awake and simply lost in thought.  
  
Sam tried a more direct approach.  
  
"Mr. Legolas, sir? Legolas?"  
  
The elf drew in a long deep breath and lifted his head. He regarded Sam with questioning, melancholy eyes.  
  
Sam opened his mouth and promptly forgot what it was he wished to ask. He flushed with helpless embarrassment and bit his lip and raised his eyebrows apologetically.  
  
Legolas's expression grew merry at the sight of Sam's discomfiture and he laughed lightly. "Samwise, my dear hobbit, someday we shall have to rid you of this shyness that seems to overtake you at the very sight of an elf. I promise you I shall not bite," the elf smiled regretfully, "despite what you may think of me after this morning."  
  
Sam eased a little and found his voice, encouraged by the elf's alacrity. "T'was nothing important, Legolas. I mean, that is, I was wanting to ask if we were close to Mirkwood or if I am completely out of my reckonin'."  
  
Legolas thrust his oar into the swirling waters and slowed his boat, allowing Aragorn's to slide nearer and draw alongside. He looked across Sam's arm to examine the hobbit's makeshift map.  
  
"Nay, Sam, you have it aright. We are indeed close to Mirkwood's southern border... there by your hand. That is where the Brown Lands end and Mirkwood begins."  
  
"Then we are near your home?"  
  
"What you must remember, Sam, is that Mirkwood is a very great forest. Upon your small map it is but a vague outline of trees but in truth Mirkwood stretches out far to the north from where we are, nearly as great a distance as your home from where we find ourselves now. The Wood-elves of Mirkwood roam through much of these parts, and my father's palace lies there... in the northern section and to the east, near the Grey Mountains where the swift Forest River runs."  
  
Frodo chuckled. "As I recall, Bilbo was less than charmed by the denizens of Mirkwood outside Thranduil's borders."  
  
Legolas laughed and his eyes glimmered. "Ah, but your uncle travelled blindly, Frodo, and did not have an elf with him for company. I fear he saw naught but the darkness and the wild. Yet I might show you the glades beneath the beech and oak and elm where light lingers longest, where silver moonlight sifts white between the leaves to dance upon the air. Someday you shall see it, Frodo, and you, Sam. I will take you there, and you shall drink and feast with the Wood-elves on a midsummer night and discover the beauty of Mirkwood for yourselves."  
  
Sam strove to answer, but was confounded by a lump caught firmly within his throat. Frodo came to his rescue. "I could imagine nothing more wonderful, Legolas."  
  
Aragorn stretched and lifted his oar high above his head as a warning to Boromir and the hobbits behind them. "In the meantime, you may want to take a securer seat, my friends. There are rapids approaching."  
  
Sam scrambled to the center of their boat and stowed his map as the sound of the water grew louder and the canoes began to pick up their pace. Legolas unfolded his legs and knelt in readiness and cut behind them. Gimli stirred finally from the silent meditation he had slipped into after Aragorn's chastisement. He caught up his paddle with strong hands and raised his head to size up the disturbance of the water.  
  
It was but a small swirling flow of running rapids, a mere riffling of the current tugging at them, but the swiftness took their breath and the boats rose and fell to the buoyant swell with exhilirating speed. Each caught the drive of the current that carried them away from the angriest places and they let them go quartering to the wildest rush and shooting past.  
  
Aragorn paddled into calmer waters beyond and tarried watchfully until all three boats had emerged safely from the toiling river and Frodo laid down his own oar with a sigh. He could do little enough to aid Aragorn when the waters grew rougher, but Aragorn assured him the river was mostly tame until one reached Sarn Gebir. His assurances and the promise of the elves in Lorien that the grey vessels would not sink were all that kept Frodo from diving to the floor with Sam when the Anduin chose to toss them about like grey leaves in a stream.  
  
They watched Boromir and Merry drive their boat through the foaming water and weave between the rocks and heard Merry's triumphant shout rise above the roar as they defeated the rapids and coasted in behind them.  
  
"Trust a Brandybuck to be enjoying this!" Sam muttered as he sat back up.  
  
Aragorn swept the dark, wet hair from his eyes and grinned. "A conspirator, a jester, a warrior, but we have not made you yet into a riverman, Samwise Gamgee?"  
  
Frodo laughed despite the still racing of his heart and the trickles of cold water running uncomfortably down his back. It was good to see their spirits lift and hear mirth in their voices.  
  
"Not now, not ever," Sam declared as he settled once more against the curve of their small boat and wrung out his cloak. "Soaked to the bone and smellin' of fish. I will be right happy when we get out of these boats tonight, and happier when we don't have to get back in 'em."  
  
Sam turned up his nose and cast a look of aversion back at the stretch of river they left behind.  
  
Suddenly something caught his sight along the shoreline far back and away: at first he stared at it listlessly, then he sat up and rubbed his eyes; but when he looked again he could not see it anymore. Aragorn had taken up his oar once more and they fell into line behind him and began to weave their way down the river once more. Though Sam strained to catch another glimpse of movement upon the edge of the dwindling rapids, there was now nothing there.  
  
"You say no one lives here, Strider?" Sam asked.  
  
"Nay, no one does, Sam. Not in these dark times."  
  
"The elves of Lorien and Mirkwood never travel this far?"  
  
Legolas paused in his idle efforts to bail the water from their boat's hull and looked up, his keen elvish ears catching the note of worry in Sam's voice. He followed Sam's gaze, as did Aragorn, and they scanned the banks along the Anduin behind them. The elf and the Ranger exchanged glances.  
  
"The elves of Lorien do not now leave their borders lest they are sorely pressed, and sorely pressed would they have to be to venture forth with the Shadow watching in the East," the elf said. "Nor would my people. Southern Mirkwood is a dark place and none come this way, Samwise, though my father and my people have tried to conquer the evil which still lingers there. Mirkwood is aptly named, I fear, for all our efforts. The dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon's fall have returned in greater numbers and the forest is once more unsafe, save where our realm is maintained. The deeper into the southern wood you venture, Sam, the more perilous. There lies Dol Guldur and long was it a haven for Sauron ere his shadow grew."  
  
"That is where it began," Frodo said quietly. Legolas made to answer, but was interrupted.  
  
"Aye," murmured a deep voice. Gimli stirred, but did not turn his head to look at the hobbits or the elf, and seemed more to be speaking to himself. "That is where it began. In Mirkwood. Often have I wondered whether it was due to the negligence of the elves that Sauron grew strong beneath their very noses, or whether it was not such a coincidence that evil should choose elvish lands in particular to take root."  
  
Legolas's eyes grew sharp and cold as green ice and Sam shuddered at the sudden change. It was unexpected and took his breath as surely as the rapids scant moments ago. Legolas drew his attention from the shoreline and turned to confront Gimli; his words were clipped and tense when he replied.  
  
"I believe you did strike upon the truth with your latter suggestion. I do not think it a coincidence. Ever has evil sought to corrupt that which is fair, and what greater pleasure could Sauron find than to twist the trees and growing things that once thrived in Greenwood the Great to fashion the decayed and foul eyesore that is Dol Guldur. But I argue with one whose wit is so feeble that I find I cannot fault him for seizing upon the first absurd conclusion which sprang into his mind. You are forgiven."  
  
It was odd, Sam thought. Gimli had blinked and regarded Legolas with what appeared to be confusion when the elf spoke to him. The dwarf listened with a weary, disinterested expression, then he changed also and he glared malevolently at the elf and bared his teeth. "Feeble my wit must be," he muttered, "else I should have sliced out that elvish tongue of yours long ago and left you to the Wargs ere you ever defiled Khazad-dum with your presence."  
  
"And in those filthy caves we should have left you, sobbing as a weak child beside the tomb of your failed cousin," Legolas hissed, and he stood up before the dwarf, balancing within the lurching boat.  
  
Sam saw Gimli's hand stray to his axe and there was an eerie glint in his eyes. Legolas's face became terrifyingly emotionless, as if a mask were sealed over his fair, familiar features, turning them fell and fearful. Vile epithets crackled through the air as Legolas and Gimli sought to wound with words, scarcely far from seeking to wound one another with cold steel. Sam heard Frodo and Aragorn shift and felt Frodo grip his shoulder hard but he sat mesmerized by the awful confrontation. It seemed to Sam as he watched that the elf and dwarf were staring across thousands of years of hatred and rage into each other's gaze. It was horrible to see and Sam felt sick at heart. Feeling responsible for inadvertently sparking the conversation which had led to this, he turned to his master helplessly, pleading for him to do something.  
  
It was too much... these cruel and cutting words that leapt unbidden to their tongues, the senseless, petty spite... It made little sense, this sudden change in them. Weariness and frustration could not stir up such strife. Frodo felt gripping terror well up within him.  
  
He caught the look in Sam's eyes and he shook his head... and realization dawned within him.  
  
Nay, it is not your fault, Sam, he thought. It is mine. It is because of me.  
  
"Stop this..." Frodo moaned. "Please, both of you stop." He shivered with a sudden chill and drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders and hunched down, his eyes shut tightly. His hand flew to his throat, then touched the chain about his neck, and followed it downward until he gripped the hard, golden circle beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, clasping it as he did a hundred times a day, always checking to see that it still was there, that it still hung securely about his neck. It was warm to the touch. Perhaps it was warmed by the heat of his body, though he did not think so for his flesh beneath was clammy and cool. He heard Aragorn speak and heard Gimli's rough voice answer, but he did not understand their words. The air vibrated in his ears and he could taste a coppery tint at the back of his throat.  
  
Chinks in their armor.  
  
Frodo gulped for air, and a pressure squeezed his chest until he thought his heart might burst.  
  
Chinks in their armor. It is finding the cracks in their defenses and prising them open, burrowing into them, baring their weaknesses and prodding at their minds.  
  
It is using them. It was trying to take them from him.  
  
The taste in Frodo's mouth grew stronger and he felt dizzy, felt as if he were suspended within some horrid black void. The hum in the air grew stronger and triumphant whispers filled his mind.  
  
Frodo's eyes flew open and he gasped at the touch of a firm hand upon his arm. Aragorn had laid aside the oars and caught Frodo up. He gripped him tightly and in his grim face Frodo saw worry and sadness and also a confirmation of his fears.  
  
He knew. Aragorn knew what was happening and there was naught he could do. Frodo despaired, but the Ranger held his gaze for a long moment until Frodo felt the weight upon him ease and the whispers in his mind grew quiet. He remained still, listening.  
  
"You will cease this." Aragorn's voice was low and terrible to hear and Frodo shuddered at the force of it.  
  
"You will cease this at once. Now!" he said, and he fixed commanding, unbreakable eyes upon the elf and dwarf.  
  
The hum in the air vanished and the air grew lighter, and it seemed as if something dark had fled before Aragorn's wrath. Legolas choked slightly and trembled, his breathing suddenly quick and shallow. He looked at Frodo and the colour drained from his cheeks. He sank down and his eyes closed; he lifted the oar in his hands and he held the wood tightly to his heaving breast as if to steady himself.  
  
Gimli's shoulders jerked at the lash of Aragorn's words and his shoulders slumped; his face was ruddy and he blinked rapidly as one awakening from a deep sleep, from a nightmare, to find that others had shared in it with him. Bewildered, he looked to Legolas and swiftly averted his eyes.  
  
Aragorn looked grim. Frodo felt his grip on him loosen, and the Ranger sat back onto the stern-seat slowly, warily, still watching the elf and the dwarf.  
  
Legolas and Gimli sat motionless, though the shore behind them raced past and the river continued to bear them along. Gimli's face was in his hands. Legolas was motionless, his dull eyes fixed upon the water.  
  
"Come, my friends," Aragorn said. "We have yet a long way to go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: *Nimue comes rushing into the room with a flurry of papers in her wake*
> 
> GoodNESS! What is it? Shall I be plagued to death by requests for more chapters? What? I left the Fellowship stranded out on a river in a highly agitated state? And they're waiting for me to show up and tell them what to do? Do I LOOK like a wizard? A Ranger? Any kind of person with intelligence at all? *Ahem!* Don't answer that. I DID get the boats going in the right direction eventually, didn't I? So there. ; )
> 
> LOL! Sorry, sorry... all kinds of not-so-fun distractions lately and I've been dying to get back to working on this story. My deepest apologies for the wait, and thank you all for caring enough to pester me into writing more. The story IS there in my head all the way to the last chapter, I just have to find time to hammer out the details. In the meantime, here's the next bit of the tale... before I get strung up, or Fairyboy goes hoarse. ; )


	7. A Pull of the Strings

"I doubt very much if your friends would be in danger if you were not with them! The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. It is you, Frodo, and that which you bear that brings us all in peril."  
  
I hear these words over and over in my mind and I cannot not deny them now any more than I could when first Glorfindel uttered them.  
  
It will destroy them all. They would give their noble lives for me, for this quest, without hesitation. It will not be enough. In the end, they shall give their inestimable souls.  
  
It is my doom. I will not let it be theirs. I could not bear it. May they have the strength and the will to hold on just a little longer. It is all I can ask of them.  
  
\---------------------------------  
  
The Great River grew shallower and wide as they journeyed south and the day began to wane. Its current was slow and lazy and the Fellowship pushed along at a steady rate; cloaked in their elven garments within the grey canoes, they passed along the shore as silent and pale as shades in the twilight. Aragorn called a halt when the sun touched the horizon. They might have continued on with what little light was left to them, but exhausted and disheartened, the travellers could bring themselves to go no further that night and embraced Aragorn's suggestion that they find a place to rest. They chose a small eyot near to the western bank and moored their boats upon the edges of the sandy stretch of land.  
  
Frodo and Sam crawled from their cramped seats and stood at the foot of the water, straining their backs with soft moans and stretching their arms into the air. Aragorn followed suit and winced as he unfolded his long legs and stood straight after so long a duration. The others disembarked and loud was the crunch of sand and gravel beneath their leaden feet as they shuffled up the shore. The round red sun dipped lower now and stained the clouds a deep crimson over the horizon, coaxing that very little bit of hope in the Companions that whatever else tomorrow should hold for them, they should at least be blessed with good weather.  
  
The eyot was hardly an island at all; it was a part of the western bank carved from the larger mass by a slender stream which strayed from the river's main flow. The break of sand and shale snaked along the western edge of the water and disappeared around a bend. A rough and exposed campsite it was, though the outcroppings of layered rock and tangled brush would conceal them at least from any prying eyes to the east. It was the best they would do this night and they accepted it gratefully.  
  
Pippin cast his bedroll to the ground and flopped down next to it. A yawn climbed from the tips of his toes to his top of his head and cracked his jaw wide open. His face contorted into a hideous expression and Merry jumped as he turned suddenly to speak to him.  
  
"Lawks, Pippin! You frightened me out of a year's growth. Are you trying to swallow your head?"  
  
Pippin stifled the next yawn and blinked blearily at Merry. "I feel as if I haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks."  
  
Merry nodded. "Being out upon a river does that. All this water and wind and fresh air," he gestured around them with a vague wave of his hand.  
  
Pippin groaned, "Whatever it is, I believe I could forego dinner and drop off where I'm sitting."  
  
"A powerful weariness it must be indeed," Gimli rumbled as he strode heavily towards them, "for a hobbit to suggest missing a meal! Should we bury you right here in the sand, Master Peregrin?" The dwarf's dark eyes twinkled with merriment and he deposited Pippin's pack at his feet.  
  
"I shouldn't mind," Pippin murmured. He turned over to lie upon his stomach buried his head in the crook of his arm. "Wake me late in the morning, Merry, I think I might just let sleep take me here and now."  
  
"You might, but you shan't!" Sam exclaimed and he nudged the young hobbit sharply with his foot. "You've planted yourself right where I'm fixin' to make our fire. If you sleep there, we'll be trippin' all over you."  
  
"I doubt I should even notice," Pippin declared, his voice muffled in his sleeve. Merry sighed with resignation and rolled Pippin off to the side and out of the way, the promise of supper outweighing his own exhaustion. Sam adopted his most efficient expression and set about digging a pit for the fire.  
  
"Sand in my eyes, sand in my boots, sand gritting between my teeth... my skin shall be rubbed raw from all of the sand that has sifted into my clothing." Boromir eased himself stiffly down upon a large flat rock near the hobbits and shook a sizable quantity from his hair for emphasis. "I should change into clean garb, but no doubt the sand has crept into my baggage and invaded it as well."  
  
Merry raised his eyebrows and even Pippin lifted his head a little at this. It was the most Boromir had spoken for quite some time and they considered this comparable flood of words from the man of Gondor to be a good sign. Aragorn apparently took it to be so. The Ranger looked up with mild surprise as he slogged from the water's edge bearing a few necessities and an armful of driftwood. He sat with a rush of expelled breath next to Boromir.  
  
"Impossible," Aragorn said lightly. "You cannot claim such discomfort, as I can tell you most assuredly that every grain of sand from the mouth of the Anduin to Pelargir is clinging to my own person."  
  
Legolas strode towards them, his feet making no noise upon the broken shale and gravelled ground. The elf's collar was loose and he swept back freshly damp hair from his face. He tied it behind his head and regarded his wilted companions. "Hardships we may bear upon this journey, but one thing we certainly do not lack in this place is water, my friends. If the sand offends, banish it to the river!"  
  
"I haven't the energy," Pippin muttered.  
  
"I could bring the river to you, if you desire?" Legolas sang out, and Pippin gave a cry and scrambled to a defensive position at the elf's suddenly mischievous tone, anticipating a dousing. Legolas's silvery laughter pealed through the evening air.  
  
The day seemed nothing more than an evil dream to them now, vanishing from their minds even as the sun's rays vanished over the distant hills. They willed it to be so. They strove to fill the silent moments with speech, to fill their speech with harmless pleasantries, to give no quarter to the doubts and fears which lurked beneath it all.  
  
Sam soon had a small, servicable blaze crackling before them and they lingered near the warmth of the crackling flames and shared hushed conversation as the light of the sky disappeared and the stars came out.  
  
Frodo lay next to Pippin and gazed upwards and placed his hands behind his head. "They seem brighter tonight somehow," Frodo observed.  
  
"The Crown of Durin is very bright," Gimli agreed, and he pointed towards the seven stars glittering down at them. "A portent of good days to come," the dwarf declared in his deep, rich voice. He had shrugged off his mail and now lounged comfortably nearby in a light shirt despite the cool breeze off the water, and brushed through the tangles of his long beard with deft fingers.  
  
Frodo took in a draught of night air and gazed into the darkness. He listened to the talk about the fire and the rustle and bustle of the Company as they settled for the night, and he longed for this peace to last. Good days to come. He would hold the stars to their promise.  
  
Sam sat tending his fire until the flames met his satisfaction, then he cleared his throat emphatically. "If I might persuade you all to move out from underfoot?"  
  
Boromir and Aragorn allowed themselves to be shooed away by the hobbit and trudged off to find more wood, speaking as they went with quiet, easy voices.  
  
Legolas tarried still near the fire's light like a moth hovering about a candle. He paced lightly from side to side, carving designs in the sand with the tip of his foot and humming softly to himself. Frodo laughed aloud when Sam finally lost patience and put the idle elf to work, drawing a bundle of weathered carrots from his stores and placing them in Legolas's hands with orders to chop them into manageable bits.  
  
The elven prince accepted the carrots and Sam's directions with a smile, and he winked at Frodo as he passed by to fetch his knife from his belongings.  
  
Sam was in his element. The elves of Lorien had sent them off well-stocked and Sam meant to make full use of the supplies tonight. Spirits are brightest where food is best. He pushed from him the helplessness he had felt in the face of the antagonism that day and set to work. His companions were in sore need of a decent meal, and this at least Sam could provide.  
  
He pondered the foodstuffs he had to work with and hesitated. Sam's general disinterest in maps resulted in a poor sense of judgement when it came to distances, and he was unsure about the necessity of rationing at this point. Rationing was a notion quite abhorrent to a hobbit and Sam still struggled to wrap his mind around it. Even had his judgement been good it would not have mattered, for he still had no clear idea yet where it was they were bound or where they should chance to find their meals along the way.  
  
He had a notion he should be somewhat conservative, but the swift, stolen bites they had grown accustomed to eating just would not do tonight. Sam threw caution to the wind and rummaged through his stock in search of more vegetables and meat and flat bread for the makings of a hearty stew to fill their stomachs and renew their strength.  
  
Sam held out his cooking pot. "If someone could find their way to fetching me some water, I'll see about fixin' something hot. I think we could use it."  
  
"Indeed, Sam," Aragorn said as he drew near with more wood. "A hot meal and a night's rest, and perhaps we may hold up better tomorrow." He moved towards the hobbit and reached for the cooking pot, but Legolas was quicker.  
  
Legolas wiped slivers of orange pulp from his blade and tucked it under his arm, then deposited the diced carrots into the hobbit's lap and took the kettle from him. "I will go," he said. Aragorn nodded at him thankfully and settled to the ground, his legs stretched out before him. Legolas stepped over him lightly and made for the river.  
  
"You call the Crown of Durin a PLOUGH?" Gimli sputtered loudly from across the camp.  
  
Merry nodded apologetically. "I'm afraid so. See there? That swoop of stars make up the handle, and those four there are...."  
  
Gimli held up a hand. "Let me not picture it, if you please, Meriadoc." The dwarf looked at the hobbit with consternation, then tentatively pointed back into the night sky. "Dare I even ask what you call the Smith's Forge?"  
  
Pippin snorted with amusement and Merry coughed as he replied, "That would be... the Butterfly?"  
  
Gimli made a noise like a strangling dog and cast a look of supreme disgust at the hobbits. Merry regarded him with a wide, guileless expression and the dwarf rose with an oath. He stalked to the fire and glared at Aragorn, who wisely chose to stay silent, though his grey eyes betrayed his amusement. Boromir's shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.  
  
"Butterfly...." the dwarf muttered loudly as he plunked himself down with exaggerated defeat next to Boromir. He listened to burst of laughter that erupted amongst the halflings and the dwarf fought the smile which tugged at the corners of his mouth.  
  
His fondness for them all filled his heart and he felt truly well for the first time in days.  
  
Gimli sat back and gazed once more at the sky. The dwarf sighed lustily. He wondered if the stars shone as brightly this night in Erebor, and an unexpected pang of longing for his kinsmen took him.  
  
The third and last messenger from Mordor would have come to his people by now, no doubt with war in his wake. As he travelled with the Fellowship, it was easy to fall into his role as protector of the Ringbearer and to forget that life in the world beyond their small circle continued on, and that battles were being waged and forces massing who were heedless of their efforts, of the quest they had undertaken. Was the Lonely Mountain now beset by enemies from the South while he traipsed through fen and field, forest and hill, so far from home? Who knew what he would find if ever he returned.  
  
How long had it been since he last heard a dwarven voice? Since Rivendell, and that seemed a lifetime ago.  
  
"You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy it will be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot forsee what each may meet upon the road."  
  
The memory of the words of the Lord of Imladris came to him suddenly, though he had paid them little mind when first they had been spoken and had not thought of them since, until now.  
  
No oath. No bond to hold him here. An ache rose within him and he looked to the north.  
  
And then he looked to Sam, and to Merry and Pippin upon the other side of the fire, and Frodo with them, and listened to their bright chatter, their merry voices and he was drawn back to the reality which was here before him.  
  
No oath he had spoken, it was true. But a bond there was and he would not forsake it. He could never forsake them.  
  
Gimli felt steely resolve plant itself in his heart and drive the doubt from his mind and he sent a silent prayer from his lips to the shining bits of light of Durin's Crown in the sky above him.  
  
A dark shape passed before him, blocking his view of the stars, and his thoughts were scattered like sparks from a stirred fire. He looked up to see the elf move by.  
  
Gimli watched him with detached concentration.  
  
"Your water, Master Samwise," Legolas bowed gracefully and gave over the cooking-pot. He heeled and turned to walk back.  
  
It was a small movement which might have gone unnoticed if Gimli hadn't been watching for it, hadn't been waiting for it to happen. Legolas looked down to avoid stepping upon a trailing fold of Aragorn's cloak and as his eyes swept up from the ground before him, they met Gimli's.  
  
The elf's lips parted as if he would speak, then he merely shook his head and continued by.  
  
The dwarf lowered his head slightly and stared at Legolas with a fixed expression as he walked away from him.  
  
"If you have something to say, then have the courage to say it, elf."  
  
For a moment he was uncertain if the words were in his mind or if he had actually given them voice, but that was answered swiftly enough when Legolas rounded upon him with a venomous glare. Gimli sat very still and Legolas did not move, and Gimli wondered if the elf might ignore him and leave, but he stayed where he was and looked at the dwarf with expectation.  
  
Then Gimli was on his feet and standing in front of the elf quite ere he knew exactly how he had gotten to be there.  
  
The dwarf sensed the others around them, glimpsed them at the edges of his sight, their circle of faces caught unaware and only beginning to register alarm. In the firelight, they were strangers' faces, strong, haunting, unfamiliar and they meant nothing to him. Gimli looked at the elf impassionately and saw the glow of the flames reflected in his companion's flat eyes.  
  
"Well?" he asked, and his voice was lost to him; it was unable to penetrate the roar which filled his ears.  
  
"It seems to me a futile effort to waste my words upon such as you." The elf's words sounded hollow and forced.  
  
"Such as I?" Gimli said thickly.  
  
Legolas's face twisted with utter disdain and he took a step forward... and then faltered, the hatred in his eyes turning to confusion. He blinked and lifted a slender hand to his heart. Then the anger flickered across his face and he motioned dismissively, deigning not to reply, and he turned his back upon the dwarf.  
  
Gimli felt rage such as he had never felt lick fiery hot at his senses. He could not breath, could not speak. He loathed the arrogant, miserable creature before him and hated him for rejecting him like that. He surged foward and reached for the elf and grasped his shoulder to spin him around. Someone cried out behind them, but the others did not exist; The elf and dwarf were alone, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but one another.  
  
Legolas's eyes flashed dangerously and he jerked away from the dwarf's hands. "Touch me not!"  
  
"Do it," Gimli growled, his nerves strung ugly and raw. Legolas did not move. Gimli looked to the forgotten white knife clenched in Legolas's hand and the elf followed his glance. "You wish it. Do it!"  
  
The air seemed to fold in upon itself and shadows altogether darker than the night swirled about them, slow, so slowly, and yet it all happened in an instant.  
  
Aragorn leapt to his feet. Frodo untangled himself from his cloak and rose to his knees with a shout upon his lips. Sam looked on with horror at Legolas and Gimli standing toe to toe, and he turned too quickly and stumbled as he tried to rise; he upended his cooking-pot with a clatter and the water splashed and seeped into the ground. Boromir sprang up and hurled himself over the fire, but the few seconds of disbelief had delayed their efforts and they could not react swiftly enough.  
  
Gimli drew off and backhanded Legolas with all his might. The merciless blow snapped the elf's head sideways and crushed him to his knees in a spray of sand and gravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: A comment or two! I do not know what the dwarvish equivalent of the butterfly constellation Wilwaren, but I am certain that the dwarves would make from it as a less whimsical pattern, so I made one up for them. Artistic license and all that! : ) Most hobbits would likely refer to the Crown of Durin constellation as the Scythe, not the Plough, but you know those Brandybucks... they aren't like most hobbits, and they like to be different. Carrots? Well, if Peter Jackson can have tomatoes, which they most certainly did NOT have in Middle-earth, I can have carrots. I figure if our dear elf has the skill to ginsu an army of orcs, he should do fairly well with a pile of fresh produce. ; ) A Fellowship cannot live by lembas alone! ; )


	8. Heroes

Somewhere deep inside, Gimli screamed silently, desperately, and the part of him which was conscious of what he had just done recoiled in horror. He flinched as if struck himself and he faltered back.  
  
It was well he did so, for the elf's counterstrike was swifter than sight; in a flash Legolas was on his feet with blade in hand and had Gimli stood defiant, his head would surely have been lying in the sand where the elf had sprawled only a heartbeat before. Legolas swept his knife upward in a vicious arc and Gimli felt it whistle past; pain seared across his breast. Gimli stumbled and pressed a hand to the wound, then he narrowed his eyes and lunged forward with a savage shout.  
  
The Fellowship would have been six that night if Aragorn and Boromir had not closed in quickly. Boromir threw himself at the dwarf, gripping him by the shoulders and forcing him to the ground. Gimli slammed a solid fist into the man's gut, but Boromir had not yet removed his leather armor and the warded blow did no harm to him and served only to enrage the dwarf further. Cursing and spitting guttural dwarven words, Gimli fought to break the warrior's hold on him, but his struggles were incapacitated by the madness which clouded his mind and Boromir proved to be stronger than the raving dwarf.  
  
Aragorn broke forward to stand resolutely before Legolas. The elf was still, very still, his arms at his side, the knife stained with the dwarf's blood clenched tightly in his fingers and he was watching Gimli with a look as cold as a killing frost. A gash along his cheekbone was red and raw in the firelight and a blackened bruise was beginning to form along his jaw where the dwarf's powerful, stony hand had caught him.  
  
Carefully, Aragorn gripped Legolas by the sword arm to keep his weapon at bay and he hooked a finger below the elf's chin, forcing him to look up and meet his gaze.  
  
The pale green eyes were flat and murderous. Legolas stared through Aragorn as if the heir of Elendil was an insignificant annoyance to him, beneath his concern; Aragorn's throat constricted at the lack of emotion, the coldness he saw. That alien, abhorrent look did not belong there, would never belong to any elf, and did not belong in the eyes of his impassioned friend.  
  
Sickened, Aragorn trailed his hand down the elf's arm and wrenched the blade from him. He lifted it into the air and slowly, deliberately, cast it downward and plunged it into the sand at Legolas's feet.  
  
"Look to me," Aragorn ordered, but Legolas did not react to his voice. "Tiro na nin! Nuitho i'ruith." The elf fixed his gaze upon the Ranger, yet he seemed to recognize him not, and he made to retrieve his knife.  
  
Aragorn stopped him and brought him up. He cupped the elf's face in his hands and looked at him hard, delved deep within him, trying to pull Legolas's will to the surface to meet his own. "E-tolo le ulunn tin, Legolas Thranduilion?" Aragorn whispered.  
  
Legolas seemed to hear this. He flinched slightly and Aragorn saw something stir in those eyes. His voice grew stern, his grip tighter, needing the elf to reach back and seek him now.  
  
"Aen. Hado dad lin meldir ah e-tolo be buian esta hir Sauron."  
  
The elf's breath caught and he shuddered violently. Aragorn saw the veil lift; the life returned to Legolas's face and brought with it desperate disbelief. As close as he was, Aragorn could feel the horror dawning in his companion and the confusion and the pain and he wished fervently that he could spare the elf and Gimli both from the harsh reality laid out now before them, for their sake and for the sake of their companions.  
  
He had seen the signs in Boromir. Temptation had ridden upon his back, spurring the man of Gondor since Rivendell and Aragorn recognized it for he too felt the lure of the Ring, though he understood the danger moreso than did Boromir. Ever had he kept watch over their stalwart, conflicted companion, fearing the worst, fearing for Frodo.  
  
And with his narrow vigilance, Aragorn had failed the others. He berated himself for his neglect, but for all the bickering, all the bitterness, he had held hope that the elf and dwarf would be less susceptible to the corruption, slower to succumb. He had needed to believe that. He could not trust Boromir, could hardly trust himself, and more than ever he had realized he had relied upon the unyielding dwarf and the dauntless elf to be strong. Unfairly did he place that burden upon them, this he knew, and yet he could not help but feel betrayed by them now.  
  
Then Legolas turned from Aragorn to look at Gimli, and all of Aragorn's emotions were overturned. The anger, the betrayal he felt at their actions was nothing, nothing compared to what Legolas was feeling, and his eyes mirrored the immeasurable sorrow he saw in the elf's eyes.  
  
Aragorn lifted a hand and lightly traced the hurt upon Legolas's face.  
  
"I am sorry, Legolas," Aragorn said quietly. "Aranno nin. I should have been watching. I knew. I knew you were in danger and I failed you both."  
  
Legolas looked at him, unable for a moment to answer. "You... failed us?" he murmured. He smiled sadly and he shook his head, and Aragorn was arrested by the sudden vulnerability of the elf.  
  
Legolas looked so very young. Never had he seemed so, ever; though the timelessness of his companion's features would suggest it, Aragorn was wiser than to ever think that. But now, for the first time, the confidence, the surety of him, the ancient presence and eternal self- possession of his people which did emanate always from Legolas were all but gone.  
  
Legolas stood before him, broken, discouraged, a young elf indeed who had been tested and was unable to withstand the subtle might of the Enemy he fought so very hard against.  
  
Aragorn felt his heart tremble at the enormity of this, recognizing it as his own greatest fear the elf now suffered, and he wanted to shake Legolas and banish the thoughts from his mind and make him see that Glorfindel, Elrond, Gil-galad himself! the greatest, eldest of the Elven lords could never have served the Fellowship any more bravely or worthily that he had.  
  
But the elf turned from him abruptly and walked towards the fire.  
  
Legolas gazed upon the halflings, lingering upon their concerned faces, and he sought the Ringbearer. He met the hobbit's eyes and unshed tears misted Frodo's sight; Legolas looked upon him with gentle, wondering fear.  
  
He feared Frodo! It wrung the halfling's soul, and Frodo felt Sam cast an arm about him. They watched as Legolas knelt before them both. The elf bowed his head for a long moment.  
  
Then he said simply, softly, "I will fetch more water, Sam," and he gathered Sam's kettle into his arms and he rose; he walked slowly, silently away from them, out of the light from their fire and off into the darkness.  
  
\----------------------  
  
  
  
Gimli had crouched passively upon the ground, Boromir's arms still restraining him, though he had ceased to struggle. The fury that would not be quelled by Boromir's strength was dissolved in the wake of the sight of the grief which overwhelmed his elven companion. Gimli sagged and would have collapsed, but Boromir held him fast and spoke quiet words to him.  
  
The false hatred drained from him and left him weak and shaking as no dwarf should. He heard Aragorn speak and watched him touch the elf's cheek, saw the gash upon the smooth skin and the bruised flesh and he was sick with loathing of what he had done. He pulled away from Boromir and huddled there wretchedly, beyond despair. He felt their eyes upon him now and knew a shame which threatened to stop his heart.  
  
Firm hands touched him and he looked up to see Aragorn before him.  
  
"Let me tend it for you, Gimli. Come."  
  
The hurt was nothing Aragorn could ease. He watched Legolas walk off into the darkness and the shallow slash across his breast burned with a deeper pain than any wound more mortal. However, shattered though it was, his pride made him get to his feet. He refused their help and tugged at his tattered shirt, the white of it now stained crimson, and he pressed not-so- gently at the ragged edge of the knife cut to test the extent of the injury done. Wearily, he made his way back to the fire.  
  
Sam and Frodo sat dejectedly upon Boromir's rock. They did not look at him and though he yearned to beg their forgiveness, Gimli was not yet ready for that. Merry reached up to touch his arm as he passed, but Gimli did not stop. He stalked to his bedroll and crouched and began to search through his pack to find something with which to staunch the wound himself."  
  
"Should... should we not go after Legolas?" Merry asked hesitantly.  
  
"Nay," Aragorn said. "He will be well, Merry. Let him be. He needs to be alone." He spoke of the elf, but his gaze rested upon the dwarf. Gimli did not look up, nor did he answer.  
  
They attempted to go back to their tasks, to resume their routines, and quietly they laid out their gear and prepared for the night. Food was forgotten, and most of them showed no interest in the cold rations Sam passed out to them. Even the younger hobbits munched only a bit of waybread and were silent.  
  
Sam brought Gimli a bit of bread and cheese, but the dwarf ignored him. Dejected, Sam placed the food next to him and returned to the fire and sat staring into the flames.  
  
Boromir rested a consoling hand upon the hobbit's shoulder.  
  
"We should set a watch, Aragorn," the man murmured. "I shall take the first stretch."  
  
"You held the first watch this last night," a deep voice replied, and Boromir turned to Gimli. The dwarf lifted his head and looked up at him from beneath his dark, heavy eyebrows. "It would be my turn."  
  
"I had thought...."  
  
"I am well enough, Master Boromir. I shall keep first watch," Gimli said. Then his voice became low and he added bitterly, "Have no fear, you can all sleep sound tonight."  
  
Gimli looked to the rest of his companions with a dull sort of hopelessness about him, as if waiting for one of them to argue, to say that he was no longer trusted. It was what he fully expected and he would not have blamed them for it.  
  
Pippin lifted himself up, his small face sad and uncertain, then he stood. He picked his way over the debris of their campsite, stepping upon Merry and tripping over Aragorn's scabbard along the way; he steered himself around the fire to Gimli's side and sat down with him.  
  
"Not alone," the hobbit declared, and then he met the dwarf's eyes with defiant confidence. "I will keep it with you," he said.  
  
Gimli made to argue with him; a slow grin spread over Pippin's face and he leaned over to snag a hunk of cheese from the dwarf's plate. "The Butterfly shines brightly in the sky tonight, and I doubt I should be able to drop off for a while yet, in any case," he said between bites.  
  
Gimli stared at the hobbit and despite his efforts to be restrained, strong, proud, he began to laugh. And then the tears came, and Pippin clasped his hand.  
  
"Fool of a dwarf," Aragorn shook his head, and the Ranger was there beside him, ignoring his protests and mending the poor job he had done in binding his wound. Merry threw himself next to Pippin, and they began to regale Gimli with more hobbitish constellations as Aragorn worked, making up a few absurd ones of their own to suit them. Boromir fed the fire and built it up to light their faces and warm the night air, and the Fellowship did what they could to begin anew.  
  
\-----------  
  
  
  
The elf was by himself. He walked beneath the stars away from the others. It was not usual, not usual at all, no. They should have been resting tired eyes and keeping quiet watch. The White Face in the sky was full and rising swiftly, he was, peering down at them and casting strange shadows. It was night-time, yes, and they had paddled all day, they had, not resting, and so now was the time for them to sleep. The elf should have been with the others, but he wasn't.  
  
Gollum slunk along the slippery stones, his head on its long neck turning this way and that as he sniffed and muttered, curiosity making him bold. The elf did not see him. Gollum slid and crept and crawled closer, closer, a strange shadow himself, and still the elf did not see him, and this made him bolder still. He wondered, he did, and Gollum puzzled and pondered over the elf's wandering ways this night, and nearer and nearer he drew.  
  
  
  
  
  
\--------------------------  
  
  
  
  
  
Sindarin Translations (loosely):  
  
Tiro na nin! Nuitho i'ruith. (Look at me! Hold your anger.)  
  
E-tolo le ulunn Tin, Legolas Thranduilion? (Would you become His creature, Legolas son of Thranduil?)  
  
Aen. Hado dad lin meldir ah e-tolo be buien esta hir Sauron. (So be it. Strike down your friend and become no better than the servants who call Sauron master.)  
  
Aranno nin. (Forgive me.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: Hey hey! Sam DOES mention carrots. Thank you, Thundera. I remembered the 'taters, of course, but the carrots slipped my mind. Sounds like a good humorous fanfic song lurking in that sentence somewhere. Hmm!
> 
> Alright! So I'm a sappy idiot, and I made myself cry with this chapter. What does that say about me? I need a hobby. Well, yeah, but stamp collecting is such a bore! ; ) This is good for me, I'm sure. Catharsis. No one else may want to read my distracted ramblings, but I enjoy it.
> 
> Gollum is back! Did you all think he wouldn't be? Heavens yes. He's an intregal part of my story, the little bad penny, though it may not seem that way yet. Hardly anything in my tales is put there without a reason, and we do not likesss loose plot endsss, do we, preciousss.... (*Ahem!* Sorry.)


	9. The Veiled Soul

Along the shore with gentle hand the wind led him, commiserating with its soft, crying voice. He heeded it not. Wayward, roaming, he slipped silently through the immeasurable darkness, his feet treading ever lightly upon sand and stone though his heart was fettered by despair and threatening to drag him to his knees. He sought the solitary night and moved far and farther from the firelight and their voices, but he knew not whither he might wander now that he was alone.  
  
After a time, crisp, cold water touched his feet and he strayed uncaring into the flowing stream, imagining that he might leave the sorrow and worry behind him, that he might wash them away as grains of sand to the churning waters. The ripples touched his ankles, rose about his knees and swirled about his waist, their caress sending slight shivers through his otherwise unfeeling body. The light of the moon touched his face like a loving hand; the water cleansed him and offered to him comfort, but he remained unaware. He stood still and silent, half-immersed in the chill current and his grief was absolute, though he stubbornly refused to add his tears to the endless running river; he would not allow himself that indulgence.  
  
Only the Anduin's voice interrupted that noiseless, intimate hour. He listened with patience to the breathing of the world to try and calm his fretting mind, but found that it all now seemed strange to him; he listened as one who was lost outside the rhyme and rhythm of nature, straining to catch the music he knew to be woven into the very fabric of existence and finding instead only discord and confusion. Frustration gripped him. Sense and substance he left behind when he stepped into the weightless water, but he found not the escape he sought, only an emptiness more profound than he had ever known. No matter how strongly he willed it, the pain would not be swept away; it clung to him all the more tightly there beneath the dark sky.  
  
It would be better, he thought despondently, if I could climb.  
  
He longed for high branches and rustling leaves, yearned to stretch from the earth and to fling himself upwards, to find freedom and taste the air, to be cradled by the living trees, sharing with them life for life, to be able to breathe, just to think. He craved his forest, his home, and though he knew it to be an shameful, idle whim he was tempted, so tempted to plunge through the water and leave, to face the wilderness and danger and guilt to simply be away from this place.  
  
He gazed across the river to the Eastern shore and his eyes followed the flat, barren land far into the distance. There was nothing here which was green and growing. Places too have their own natures, their particular qualities, and over time, events leave their traces and the land retains that memory, impressing the feeling upon those who would journey there. What evil this country had seen lingered still and the torment and the destruction that had stripped it of life and beauty could still be felt in the fire-blasted stones and heard upon the calling wind which swept across the scarred fields. It told a tale of loss and anguish which mixed and melded with the rushing, chiding whisper of the timeless river, and snatches of the lament for what had once been a thriving, fertile ground now hushed in the elf's ears. All about him the world sought relief and seemed devoid of life and almost it seemed as desolate as the elf's own heart. Even in his dreams he could no longer find the solace he so dearly desired. When he closed his eyes, he was caught within the dark walls of guilt and doubt built high and insurmountable in his mind, twisting mazes which captured his thoughts and led them continually back to the center of his misery, to the image of the cruel flash of steel of the knife in his own hand which had so swiftly and so surely severed him from the Fellowship.  
  
He lifted his face to the sky, but the vastness of the vaulted stars above o'erwhelmed him; he felt not their presence now, only their absence. Their indifferent light was cold and it sent a chill through him far more tangible than that of the icy water in which he stood. The stars hung frozen in their firmament, countless steely pinpricks of light marring the black surface, and they appeared to him lifeless and fixed and distant.  
  
Or perhaps it is I who have moved so far away from them, he thought sadly, and he closed his eyes.  
  
The elves were fading. The changing of time had been so much more evident amongst the Galadhrim than his own people. In Lorien, the dead leaves were strewn upon the paths and there would be no more summers. The elves of the Golden Wood were in mourning; the light was disappearing and that which was fairest would soon pass away. Even as he had rejoiced in wandering the paths beneath the mallorns and in the company of his kindred, he could hear the sorrow in their voices, could see it in their eyes.  
  
And he knew it would come upon him as well.  
  
As Lothlorien would fade and bow to its winter, so would Mirkwood in time. It would happen. It must, and this knowledge had haunted his quiet moments since they had left the Golden Wood, where the Lady had given him to know that the peaceful denial he had enjoyed beneath the sheltering trees of the great Greenwood would never be his again; the days of sunlight and happiness he had known in his woodland home would vanish. She had sought to help him see beyond, but he had closed his heart and his mind to her and could not listen. He had not heeded her words to him and did not wish to dwell upon them.  
  
To venture forth, to face peril unmatched and perhaps never return was a risk which had not caused Legolas to hesitate when he left his father's kingdom, nor when he left Rivendell; he was a warrior and could accept this with an unquestioning courage. Yet to continue this quest with the knowledge that whatever might befall, all he did love here upon Middle- earth was not his to keep, that he must leave it behind? He had known this, of course, but never had it meant so much before. Never so very much. No longer did it seem such a distant worry to him now when failure hung like a tattered shroud upon his shoulders; as a mortal child coming to terms with death for the first time, so was Thranduil's son overwhelmed by his limitations and the inevitability of fate this night.  
  
He was not yet ready to mourn for Middle-earth, nor to leave it. He thought that to the Galadhrim he must have appeared foolish in this regard, bound as he had become to the humans and halflings and the dwarf with whom he now travelled, but he did not like the sadness and resolve he saw in his kinsmen's eyes and it disturbed him. There was so much yet to hold him here to the forests and the vales and he did not think he could abandon it all without tearing his heart in twain and he could not understand why it would not be so for them as well. His sun was setting ere he had begun to bask in its light; to be taken from all of this and to face the inexorable twilight of the elves was more than he could bear this lonely night.  
  
"Memory is not what the heart desires," Gimli had said. "That is only a mirror, be it clear as Keled-zaram." Legolas had not answered him then for he could offer no contention and no comfort for the dwarf's loss that would not have been a lie.  
  
What then shall be left for me, my Lady? Countless memories of what has been, what will never be again, forever as clear as Keled-zaram and as cold.  
  
He supposed it was fitting that the friendship he had formed with Gimli out of defiance and denial of the elvish apathy he had found in Lorien was now the touchstone of his faith. The dwarf had seemed to find hope in the Golden Wood, a hope Legolas could not find himself, though he had tried. Through Gimli's eyes, Legolas could see the beauty that Lorien still held and almost he could believe in the strength of the elves again. He shared with the dwarf his naive passion and delight, and the elf had done his utmost to close his eyes to the subtle wilting of the enchantment that encased Lorien and held back the darkness which threatened it. He wanted so badly to fall under the spell of the Galadhrim as Gimli had, but Legolas could see through the magic and knew deep inside that it could not last. Beneath the sun, all things must wear to an end.  
  
Fair are we are in comparison to the men, to the dwarves, to the hobbit children. Taller, swifter, stronger, yes, possessing higher gifts, perhaps, but not to be revered, he thought. We are a separate race; that is all. And a dying one. The spirit which filled the elven lords of old is dead. Ecthelion of the Fountain, Fingon the Valiant, Ereinion the Radiant Star, Beleg Cuthalion... their like would be seen no more upon Middle-earth. There were none now left to honor their memories with great deeds.  
  
Faded... faded and fallen. A mocking shadow I am of their brilliance, wrapping myself in borrowed glory. I am unworthy.  
  
As Galadriel had tested the hearts of each member of the Fellowship, so was Legolas son of Thranduil shown the shining gold band upon his slender finger. The vision had abhorred him, and yet the temptation was there. What would he have given to utterly destroy the Enemy? What would he have sacrificed to ensure the undimished presence of the Firstborn race upon Middle-earth? To an elf who had lived all his days under the vapours and clouds and storms of the threat of Sauron, it was a tempation indeed to use the Dark Lord's power against him and bring about a summer for the elves that Legolas had never and would never see. He had proudly refused, of course, but then his heart had been shielded then by the false faith he had built around it. He wondered now what his answer would be.  
  
Nay, he did not wish for that! By the Valar, he did not. The thought of the Ring so easily tainting his words and his actions sent a shudder through the elf and he thrust the notion from him. Never again. Already too much had been sacrificed as a result of his weakness. A flash, a recollection of shadow and hell-fire flickered through his mind, etched forever upon his ceaseless memory. His fear had conquered him then and he had faltered and quit his weapon as Mithrandir fought and fell; he had quailed before the Enemy and a companion had lost his life. This night he had raised his weapon and another life would have been forfeit had others been less vigilant. Never again.  
  
Ah, Gimli, if I could but undo what has been done, my friend, I would, no matter the cost. With more ease could I recall an arrow in flight. With more ease could I reclaim Mithrandir from the darkness which took him.  
  
Faded indeed are the elves, he thought, if I am what is left. Our age has passed and the darkness has grown mightier; perhaps it would be best for all if we were to depart from the world. Your sorrow lies in forgetting what is dear to you, Frodo Baggins; the elves dread to be forgotten, but so shall it come to pass.  
  
"Elbereth, avo awartho nin," he whispered.  
  
Legolas took one last breath of the still air, then turned to the shore... and he realized that he still bore with him Sam's cooking pot. He stared down at it, bemused.  
  
He was struck by the absurdity of it all, and it coaxed from him a grudging smile. He flushed at his foolishness. At the foolishness of his thoughts. He had been standing in the running stream railing against fate, feeling sorry for himself, seeking salvation and searching his soul as he held the simple object in his hands.  
  
He absently turned the pot over and examined it, running light fingers over the soldered metal, touching the burnished wooden handle and the small rivets placed there with intricate care by some halfling craftsman in their small village near the sea. Legolas spun it and flicked its side with his fingernail and it rang with a hollow brass *ping*.  
  
Sam's cookware: the hobbit's pride and joy. And there, carved near the base in neat script was 'property of Samwise Gamgee', a polite but stern warning to any with a mind to make off with it. Legolas laughed. He clutched the treasured item in his arms; he ignored the pull of the cut upon his cheek and the stiffness of his jaw and his gentle laughter filled the empty silence.  
  
He dipped the kettle into the stream and raised it full, then swirled it with a flourish.  
  
The moonlight poured into it and the sky was reflected upon the dark water within, wavering and shimmering on the surface. Legolas looked down as the water settled and tilted his hand to pour it back into the stream. He paused and his brow furrowed lightly and he gazed at the mirrored stars shining warm and bright, the myriad of glimmering shards flickering with a blue-white radiance in the small vessel. As it did the enormity of the heavens above him, the humble object in his hands channelled his lofty worries, brought them rushing down into a manageable perspective and guided them into focus.  
  
His laughter cleared his mind and resolve strengthened his heart.  
  
With a powerful sweep of his arm, he swung the kettle upward and set free a shower of starry water arching high into the air. The silver droplets hung for an instant, catching the moon's glow and filling the air with a dazzling silver sheen. Their light danced before his eyes and then they rained down upon him and pattered upon his skin and the river's surface with a sound like a mithril shirt being shaken.  
  
So let the stars fall and the constant heavens shatter before I betray their trust again! Legolas vowed. Let the sun set! There were battles to be fought, a quest to see through, and a disagreeable dwarf to whom he owed much in the way of atonement. He was here when they needed him there. He thought of Frodo, of the hobbit's careworn face and he cursed himself for adding to the halfling's burden. We shall prevail and come what may for my people, the day shall dawn again and bring with it hope to those whose fate it is to walk these lands. Far better to fade and be forgotten than to fail in this and leave none behind who might remember.  
  
He made his way to the eyot's bank, sand clinging to his wet shoes and water dripping from his sodden clothing. He tucked Sam's cooking pot beneath his arm and shook himself, wrung out his cloak. He glanced up. And he became very still.  
  
No less than a few dozen paces from him, crouched upon the ground and watching him with pale, staring eyes, was the creature.  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
Frodo lay motionless, listening to Sam snoring beside him in restful sleep. The fire had burned low in its bed of sand and the warm molten light of the embers glowed a deep red in the darkness, providing little light, serving only to accentuate the blackness outside their small ring of comfort. The others were asleep as well, cast about him in various positions of repose, but Frodo found he could not join them. His eyes were heavy, his body weary, his mind muzzy, but each time he began to drop off, his leg, his arm, his back would twinge and shake him from the beginnings of slumber and he would be awake once more and staring into the fire. In lieu of dreams, his thoughts roiled about inside his head, countless worries and misgivings which o'erleapt one another and vied for dominance at the forefront of his mind.  
  
Frodo rolled over and squinched his eyes closed, hoping to find rest out of sheer determination, but of course the harder he tried, the more elusive sleep became. He tossed and turned until he realized he was only going to wake Sam or strangle himself in his blankets, so finally, exasperated, he threw off his tangled covers and sat up.  
  
Gimli cast a look at him from where he sat watching over them upon Boromir's rock. He nodded, but they did not speak. Frodo scratched his neck and stretched, and he glanced around hopefully at the peaceful faces of his exhausted companions, but Legolas had still not come back to them. The hobbit pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin upon his hands. Gimli sighed and shifted uncomfortably on his seat on the hard stone, and both of them stared out into the darkness and waited for the elf to return.  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
Legolas did not move. Gollum sat hunched before him, watching him steadily and the elf gazed back curiously. There was more to dreaming of this night than reality as it was, and beyond the initial shock of realizing he had company there beneath the moonlight, he took the confrontation in stride. There was no fear in the creature's eyes, but then, why should there be? The elf had brought with him neither bow nor knife. He was alone, dripping wet and caught at unawares weilding naught but a hobbit's cooking pot; Legolas did not have about him the most imposing air he might have wished. However, with or without a weapon an elf is not a foe to take lightly, Legolas thought indignantly, and he wondered at the creature's boldness.  
  
Legolas came cautiously forward, the hour and his mood rendering him reckless. He glared at Gollum; and strode nearer still. Gollum did not stir. Legolas approached it with deliberate, graceful steps until he was a mere few feet from the creature, then he settled upon the sand and tucked his legs beneath him. The elf placed Sam's kettle beside him and he calmly sat there, his lips pursed thoughfully and his fingers tented beneath his chin. He ignored the clamminess of his raiment clinging to his wet skin and the sand which did cling to him and he looked at Gollum. Keen eyes met keen eyes in the dark.  
  
The elf studied the thing who had eluded them all this distance, who had dogged their trail for so many leagues. It seemed such an unimpressive creature. Gollum was thin and dark as a shadow stretched long in the light of waning day. Gaunt it was from lack of food and the hardship of its journey, though Legolas doubted that any amount of nourishment would banish the hungriness of it. Its ribs protruded from its scrawny chest and its lean flanks heaved heavily in and out as it breathed with a quiet, sighing wheeze. Its bony hands feverishly kneaded the sand upon which it crouched, the only indication that Gollum might be uneasy in the elf's presence. Gollum did not take its pale eyes from Legolas's face, nor did it make any move to flee or attack; it merely watched. The oddness of the creature's behaviour unnerved Legolas somewhat, but the elf's inquisitiveness was now piqued and he would have it satisfied.  
  
Gollum shifted a little to ease cramping muscles in its legs and it craned its long neck. The straggled, dank hair spilled from its forehead over its spare shoulders and framed a face that was wasted and worn and looked like thin parchment drawn across bones as delicate as a bird's. Legolas narrowed his eyes and gazed closer at the thing. It seemed old and tired to the elf, a creature to inspire pity rather than wariness. Almost Legolas imagined he saw desperation in its face. And pain.  
  
No doubt a reflection of his own mind, the elf chided himself. And still....  
  
Unsettled, Legolas lowered his hands to his lap and he tilted his head slightly. And the realization struck him. There was a change; this was not the same creature filled with malice and madness which he had surprised on the outskirts of Lorien. Nay... the fevered green glint was gone from its eyes and it seemed shrunken somehow, no longer the black, sneaking thing which had scrabbled through the dirt and shadow and stalked their movements. Legolas could see it more clearly now, nay, he tried to see it more clearly now than he had in the forest. Gollum's visage was sharp and forlorn and it seemed to Legolas that there was an awareness there now, a disturbing awareness that spoke of long, lonely years, awful torment and regret beyond redemption. Legolas drew in a long, deep breath and gazed in wonderment at the strange companion who shared the darkness with him that night and he knew that this was not Gollum here with him. And Legolas knew what it was that had drawn him so near, and what it was that he sought, and compassion overwhelmed the elf.  
  
"An utterly miserable creature you are," Legolas said softly, breaking the fragile silence. "We are not so different, Master Smeagol."  
  
If Smeagol heard him or understood him, he showed no sign. Like a huge black lizard he dug into the gravel with splayed toes and blinked with heavy-lidded eyes at the comprehending face of the elf who sat before him.  
  
\--------------------------  
  
Gimli let the muscles in his wrist relax, his grip loosen and he watched disinterested as the sand trickled from his knotted fist, tiny flecks of quartz and time slipping from his fingers. He brushed the remnants from his hands and leaned his head back, trying to ease the tension in his back. He longed for the taste of smoke. He rose. As silently as he was able, he stalked around the perimeter of their small camp to their baggage and picked through his belongings for several moments ere he remembered that his pipe would not be there. He had left it behind in Moria, cast aside carelessly somewhere along their treacherous journey through the black place. It would sit there in some dark corner laced with dust and cobwebs with the spirits of Balin and Ori and the others to molder and decay there until the end of time, he thought dismally.  
  
Nonsensical, bleak notions bred from silence and idleness. He cursed his errant mind and allowed his imagination no further quarter. And still he irritably craved smoke.  
  
The dwarf paced quietly past Frodo and the hobbit watched him stop and stand with his back to the the fire. Gimli folded his arms and lowered his head as if deep in thought. Or deep in worry. Then, as if coming to some decision, he moved again and wandered back to where he had been sitting and gingerly lifted his cloak from the rock.  
  
"Gimli?" Frodo whispered. Aragorn stirred in his sleep nearby, but did not wake. Gimli glanced back at the hobbit and placed a finger to his lips. The dwarf circled once more and came back to kneel at Frodo's side.  
  
"You should find rest, Frodo. The morning shall come all too soon," the dwarf murmured.  
  
"I should like to, but I don't think it likely," Frodo answered, and he stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.  
  
Gimli nodded and he looked away for a moment, his dark eyes distant. He turned back to Frodo and sighed. "If you are willing, I would ask you to keep watch for a short while."  
  
"You are going after him?" Frodo asked.  
  
"Aye. He has been gone too long. I know there is most likely no need and he would return in his own time, but... I cannot leave it like this." Gimli shook his head and he looked at the hobbit with troubled eyes. "Frodo, I know what you must think of me, but I swear to you I...."  
  
"I will keep watch," Frodo said softly. "Don't be long coming back."  
  
Gimli grunted assentingly and clapped a firm hand upon Frodo's arm. He stood, hurled his cloak over his shoulders and made to retrieve his axe from his belongings. He stopped and stroked his beard pensively, then he left his axe where it lay and swiftly trudged away.  
  
\-----------------------------------  
  
  
  
  
  
Translations:  
  
Elbereth, avo awartho nin: (Elbereth, do not forsake me.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: This is the quote from Sam in "The Two Towers" which dances through my mind as I write these chapters: "Why, even Gollum might be good in a tale, better than he is to have by you, anyway. And he used to like tales himself once, by his own account. I wonder if he thinks he's the hero or the villain?"
> 
> Is there much difference between the two? A most interesting conversation, a reconciliation of sorts, and many more chapters to come. After all, I'm only on their fourth day down the Anduin! Um... is there a word limit on these fanfictions? Hmm....)


	10. Whither Strays the Mind

A wisp of cloud passed the moon and a trailing finger of darkness touched the brooding elf. Legolas sat quietly and listened to the wind sigh about him; he was summoning to mind the words of a story which took on new depth, new meaning for him, given the company he now kept. Snatches of it played through his mind, and he mused over each word carefully, piecing together all he knew of this creature and his past.  
  
*All at once there came a blood-curdling shriek, filled with hatred and despair; Gollum was defeated. He dared go no further. He had lost: lost his prey, and lost, too, the only thing he had ever cared for, his precious. 'Thief, thief, thief! Baggins! We hates it, we hates it, we hates it for ever!*  
  
It had been a singular tale, simple and yet astounding, for those who lent their ears to it knew it to be the missing piece of the Ring's history that the Wise had long sought. The appetite of the halflings for story-telling and song rivaled nearly their insatiable appetite for good food, and Bilbo Baggins had served a tantalizing tale indeed to the Council gathered beneath the sheltering eaves of Imladris. At the bidding of Lord Elrond, the hobbit had readily taken up his narrative and drawn them wide-eyed into his account of burgling the most perilous of treasures in the unlikeliest of places; some would be literally drawn into the story and find themselves upon stranger roads than any could have foreseen as a result of what was revealed by Bilbo that autumn morn.  
  
Such a one was Legolas son of Thranduil, messenger of Mirkwood and guest of the Last Homely House. The tidings Legolas did bear were not of the sort he might have wished and Frodo's uncle had made his task little easier. The elf had listened with dawning dismay as Bilbo gradually illumined the dark origins of the prisoner who had been entrusted to his folk and whose very escape had been responsible for his journey from his home.  
  
The old hobbit nonchanlantly waved aside the fact that he was seated in the midst of elf-lords, dwarven emissaries, warriors from distant lands and a handful of the most significant personages in all of Middle-earth, and had settled into a comfortable, engaging verbal canter as if he were unravelling a tale before the hearth in his own small parlour in the Shire. Such was Bilbo's skill that each of them walked with the halfling almost a century ago down into that blackest of black caves in the depths of the Misty Mountains and had felt the icy chill of the sun-shunned water pooled far below which had sustained the corruption and malice of the creature called Gollum.  
  
*Bless us and splash us, my preciousss! I guess it's a choice feast; at least a tasty morsel it'd make us, gollum!*  
  
The thoughts of Legolas were returned to that dark and lonely place conjured by the halfling's tale in Rivendell, and in his mind he formed the shape of the weeping rock and tangible shadow about him as Bilbo had described them with nary a stretch of the imagination. The river trickled close by with a ghostly voice, fueling the illusion, and no other sound but the creature's quiet, rasping breathing could be heard. The coldness of the sand and shale upon which the elf sat seeped into his limbs until even the night air felt warmer to him, but it was not the brisk wind which caused Legolas to shiver; his attention was wholly upon those two lantern eyes peering back at him there in the gloom.  
  
*It's gone! What has it got in its pocketses? Oh, we guess, we guess, my precious. He's found it, yes he must have. My birthday-present.!*  
  
So it is that our fate steals silently upon us and lies in wait where we should least expect to find it. Bilbo's confrontation with Gollum had seemed to him to be but a small, insignificant detour along the path to greater adventure, yet it would ultimately bring to him more woe and renown than any dwarvish hoardes or dreadful dragon's death. You will usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the same thing you were after.  
  
Stumbling steps taken along a forsaken passageway and the Ring of Power is stuffed hastily into a frightened hobbit's pockets.... A pause along the river's edge and the bane of the son of Elendil is found, the dormant evil wakened.... The doom of Middle-earth is held within small hands and passes furtively from fen to mountain to field whilst greater eyes rove elsewhere unsuspecting.  
  
Legolas looked quietly upon the extraordinary figure sharing the solitude of the night with him and he marvelled. As the hunter, Legolas had taken no pains to learn anything of this creature beyond what might serve useful in catching him. It is unwise, after all, to look too deeply into the eyes of an enemy lest one falter and miss one's mark. Gollum had proven himself to be a wily foe in eluding capture by the elves of Mirkwood and in following the Fellowship with nary a revealing misstep giving him away to the likes of Legolas Greenleaf and Aragorn son of Arathorn; this alone did pique the elf's interest in the small creature. Legolas had laid aside his bow, however, and his interest was at the moment of a somewhat less apathetic nature; he allowed mazey queries rather than hunter's instinct to take reign of his mind.  
  
For here was Gollum. He was not merely a vague shadow, a seldom-seen nuisance who hounded their trail. The creature was huddled there before Legolas of his own volition, inviting speculation, close enough to nearly touch, and the weight of ages did seem to rest upon his thin shoulders. Legolas looked deep into those eyes, and his mind reeled at the terrible enormity of this little one's fate and the winding paths of circumstance which had led him here.  
  
"You have my attention, Master Smeagol, though you may come to regret your boldness." The threat was in Legolas's words but not in his heart. He did not like the intrusive sound of his soft voice in the pensive silence. He did wish to know more of this creature and the meaning of this meeting in the darkness ere he acted upon it, though his guard was up.  
  
What sort of being had Smeagol been before the Ring distorted him into the loathsome and loathing Gollum? the elf wondered fiercely as he studied the creature. How had he come to find his perilous prize? Acquiring his "birthday-present" might have been the end-all of Smeagol's life, but it was not the be-all.  
  
*It slipped from us, after all these ages and ages! It's gone, gollum.*  
  
Legolas mulled over snatched of the hobbit's tale in his mind, and he knew that Bilbo had erred in claiming to have taken the only thing Gollum had ever cared for. 'Ever' was assuming much, and as preoccupied with the pressing of time as the elf had been this night, 'ever' was not a word he felt should be tossed about lightly by those who could not comprehend it. Long had this fell creature suffered, of this he had no doubt, and long had he lived beneath the Ring's sway. Yet, not always. It had not always been so dark. Legolas looked upon Smeagol and it seemed to the elf that he could almost see the beginning, could see beyond.  
  
*What isss he, my preciouss?*  
  
There were none now to remember Smeagol as he had been, none who cared to. Even the creature's own recollections of days past were nearly gone, fitfully picked to pieces until there was naught left to him of his life before the Ring but shredded, scattered memories, and these served only to torment what bliss he might have found in ignorance. It should not have been so wrenching, perhaps, if the creature had no knowledge of how far he had fallen, if all had been madness within him, but the Ring granted no such mercy. There was now that unveiled awareness in this little one's eyes which spoke of such loss and loneliness, of voices half-recalled and ravaged innocence; it disturbed Legolas and intrigued him as well.  
  
The Ring had ensnared this creature, lured him from those he might have loved and who did love him and drove him to dark deeds and this basest of existence; he had lost all he cared for long, long ago to the drowning control of Sauron's contrivance. What had Smeagol been before the Ring took him? The answer was there in the eyes that met the elf's there in the darkness; the green fire of madness in them had burned low enough to allow Legolas to see what few others had seen: a glimpse of the remnants of the soul it consumed, the small, confined corner of Smeagol's mind which was still his own, hidden deep down inside away from the horrors which sought to devour him.  
  
"I can see it and I can feel it within you." the elf murmured. "Your remembrance is bitter. Were it not better to utterly forget what does so grieve our hearts, yet to some that peace shall never belong." Legolas felt the fine hairs along the back of his neck rise as Smeagol licked his lips in response and continued to stare. Legolas shook his head and sighed lightly. He leaned forward, trapping Smeagol with clear eyes, and he rested the less-tender edge of his chin upon his hand. "I would know, Master Smeagol, what it is you remember."  
  
Smeagol's eyes shifted, became more lucid in response, and to Legolas came suddenly the vivid imagining of years, countless years alone in the dark, enfolded by those slithering, invading whispers of cruelty and deceit until the boundary between one's own consciousness and the Ring's was no longer discernible. The elf had felt the taint of that subtle control but briefly, and it had been enough; the malignant taste of it lingered still.  
  
He broke his eye-contact with the creature abruptly. He shuddered at the recollection and wished he had not touched upon it. He passed a hand before his face and cast the darkness from his mind. His wound pained him, but he refused to pay heed to it; the elf firmly pushed the ache aside, unwilling and unable to deal with matters so near to his own heart just yet. The inevitable could wait. He mastered himself and guided his errant thoughts back to the welcome distraction that was Smeagol.  
  
He looked up in time to see Smeagol lower his own hand from his face. Legolas raised a questioning eyebrow, and reached up to sweep a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Smeagol raked his matted locks from his eyes. Legolas drew a finger down the long length of his nose, and watched with amusement as Smeagol imitated the gesture. The elf couldn't be sure, but he might have sworn there was a glint of grim amusement in the eyes of the creature as well. Quite unlikely, but it did seem so to him. Where did this boundary lay within this creature? Where did Gollum begin and Smeagol end? For all his growing might, the power of the Dark Lord was not absolute, not yet. Legolas thought perhaps there was a hint of something, even there in the mind of this wretched little being which could not be touched, not even by the strongest will of evil.  
  
A fanciful whim it was, to seek a gleam of hope in one whom hope had abandoned long ago, the elf supposed. Smeagol could not be cured, could not be reclaimed; others had sought to draw Gollum from the black web of his soul and had received naught from his mouth but the marks of his teeth. The creature was lost, and naught but malice lurked in his mind. This was madness beyond mere folly; much wiser it would be for the elf to slay him here and now, for the sake of the Company and Frodo's safety. It would be just and many times deserved in recompense for all the lives this creature had shaken or destroyed. Legolas drew himself up and took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the fact that Smeagol did the same.  
  
Gollum was dangerous. Quite apart from murder by night on his own account, he could put any enemy that was about on their track. It was quite clear where the elf's duty did lie; this creature was a threat to the Ringbearer. He should harden his heart to the task, he knew. One swift, merciless instant . Fear governing reason, hatred governing compassion, the world encompassed within a tiny circle of perfect gold. He should harden his heart to the task and snap the frail neck.  
  
"It would take such little effort, Smeagol, to end your miserable life, if death it is you seek from me." The elf's voice now held the grim edge of a promised threat that it had lacked before.  
  
Smeagol flinched and left off his game. He curled in upon himself like an agitated spider, his wide eyes never leaving the elf's face. He brought his thin hands to his breast, and his disfigured fingers fidgeted. They began to clench and unclench, to twist and writhe incessantly in a pattern of nervousness and remembered discomfort.  
  
Legolas tipped his head inquisitively to watch, disarmed once more by curiosity. He watched Smeagol rub his thin hands together with feverish intensity, and the elf's brittle eyes softened once more as he understood.  
  
"Nay," the elf said. "You have little love for my people, Smeagol, this I know well, but we are not cruel. Doubt not that I would kill you if you dare to come near those I protect, but it would be a swift and unerring death. I take no pleasure in causing pain."  
  
Legolas raised his own long-boned hand to his fair face and gently brushed his bruised cheek, then very deliberately touched the fingertips of his other hand, one by one by one. The creature followed his gesture with an intense gaze, suspiciously tracking every small movement.  
  
Yes. One swift, merciless instant was all it would take. An instant which could never be taken back.  
  
"What did they do to you, little one, to make you betray all you knew?" Legolas asked quietly. He motioned last to the creature's twitching fingers, then folded his hands slowly back into his lap.  
  
Smeagol's attention lingered for a moment upon the elf's hands, then he lifted his own before his face; he expression grew solemn and his eyes grey as ashes. Legolas remained very still, wondering if the creature might speak, but Smeagol kept his silence and instead swallowed hard with a queer gulping noise. It was a startling, horrible sound, like a convulsive sob combined with a chortle of laughter and the muscles in Smeagol's throat constricted grotesquely as if squeezed by an invisible grip. Legolas tensed and caught his breath a little. He swallowed instinctively himself as he watched the creature's tongue flick out over bared sharp teeth, but Smeagol's eyes were focused inward, now distant, and he gave heed to the elf no longer. His wasted hands continued to writhe and his body had begun to rock slightly to and fro, to and fro, as if he wallowed in some vague, unpleasant recollection. Long did he remain like this, and after some time it seemed to Legolas, incredulously, that the creature had forgotten his presence altogether.  
  
The elf's perplexity increased tenfold and he was at a loss. Smeagol was so near, and yet profoundly unreachable. It seemed clear that whatever had coaxed Smeagol to seek Legolas's company was not strong enough to conquer the creature's solitary mistrust. Too deep was the hatred and doubt ingrained in this fugitive of Mirkwood and spy of Sauron to draw him further from his black thoughts, regardless of the fey compulsion which had brought him here so near to the elf beneath the harsh white light of the moon. Legolas searched the face of the preoccupied little creature with frustration. Ever did Legolas watch reluctantly for the consuming green fire to kindle once more in the creature's eyes; he knew that this reprieve was but temporary. The elf shook his head lightly, his expression troubled.  
  
"I know not what it is you seek from me, Smeagol," Legolas sighed, "and I am far too weary to while the night away with futile speculations. I cannot leave you here, for I will risk no harm to my companions, nor do I think you would suffer yourself to be bound and led back to our camp without a fight, and I admit my heart is more of the hare tonight than the hunter. These meaningless games are of no use, if you will not speak...."  
  
Inspiration struck the elf like a sure-shot arrow and his eyes lit with quizzical delight; he straightened and looked at Smeagol thoughtfully for an instant, then slowly he smiled.  
  
Perhaps the key to loosening this little one's tongue lay within the hobbit's tale.  
  
Riddles. Riddles in the dark.  
  
\---------------------------  
  
Gimli paused once more to peer into the darkness ere he set off down another length of the shoreline, mumbling imprecations against the accursed light-footedness of elves. He had set off in the general direction Legolas had taken when he left the Company, not expecting a long jaunt; the eyot had not seemed as large as that and the elf knew better than to wander far from the camp, no matter how distraught. Minutes passed, however, and the red glow of the fire was left far behind him. His ears grew accustomed to the light night noises and the dull, rhythmic tread of his boots upon the level ground for there was naught else to be heard. Beyond the droning rush of the river, all was stillness, and there was as of yet no sign of Legolas.  
  
It was an island! How far could the elf have gone?  
  
Far enough. It seemed Legolas found the threat of any unknown danger lurking in the darkness preferrable to that of the Ring, and risked the former to distance himself as far as he could from the latter. Gimli could not fault the elf for that; indeed, though he would not have admitted it, his own heart felt lighter the further he moved from the others.  
  
From Frodo.  
  
His heart was lighter, perhaps, but his conscience was not and it was with great bitterness that Gimli son of Gloin bore the guilt if not the blame for his behaviour over the past few days. A dwarf should not have succumbed to the blasted whispering of Sauron's trinket! It rankled his pride. Yes, his dwarven pride, a pride that rivalled Legolas's, he admitted, and he hated that it had been the elf and dwarf who proved to be the weakest of the Fellowship.  
  
Why had it been so? Surely Legolas's race had long dealt with the wiles and ways of the Dark Lord to recognize them and resist! It was an impossible task to drive anything into the mind of his stubborn elven companion if he was unwilling to listen; Gimli could attest to that. Gimli had argued with Legolas unsuccessfully for weeks on end during their interminable journey through Moria that beards were anything but an unsightly inconvenience and a hindrance to a warrior upon a battlefield. (Legolas had abruptly dropped the matter after Gimli blithely suggested the elf shear his long hair.) For all their faults, the elves were not weak- willed. Legolas should not have been so lightly caught, and while the mind of a dwarf is said to be susceptible to the lure of gold, his own should not have been turned so easily by this particular, poisonous little golden trifle!  
  
Gimli's thoughts wandered, but his path wound unerringly along the water's edge and he moved swiftly along his chosen course. Never did his gaze lift and linger long upon the hither shore. He did not consider the possibility that Legolas had crossed the river; the elf would never have left them.  
  
Legolas might have had the consideration, however, to stumble over a bit of driftwood now and then for the benefit of anyone daft enough to come out here looking for him! The elf was making no effort to move stealthily and Gimli kept his eyes trained for faint traces of Legolas's passage, but there were none to be found. The fleet feet of an elf in the dark could confound the most skilled of trackers, and Gimli was weary. Still, he trudged on, for he found himself sensing the elf's path rather than seeing it, and was propelled by the surety of his heart if not the assurance of his eyes.  
  
Gimli felt the wind slide beneath his shirt and he irritably tugged his grey cloak tighter about him. The dwarf felt uneasily light, bereft as he was of armor and axe. Not often was he lacking either when awake, and frequently did he sleep encased in metal with his weapon near at hand. He felt awkward now without the familiar encumbrances and he rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as he walked, feeling the absence of the weight of his mail coat pulling him upwards, lifting him off his feet. A dwarf without his armor was as peculiar as a dragon without scales, and Gimli felt every bit as exposed and disgruntled. The floating sensation annoyed him, and coupled with his exhaustion, it plucked at his stride and gave him a feeling tantamount to a few strong pints hastily downed.  
  
"Unsteady I must be to have followed him out here," the dwarf muttered. "He is perfectly capable of caring for himself." Gimli shrugged and shifted beneath his cloak and reached up to rub at his neck and flexed his arms. "He is not likely to appreciate my company once I do find him. If I had any sense left to me whatsoever, I would turn back. No doubt he has already circled 'round and returned to the Fellowship, safe and sound, and is now waiting upon my return. "  
  
*No doubt he has returned. He has returned, and lounges near the warmth of the fire with a disdainful smile upon his elvish lips... laughing at the thought of the simpleminded dwarf running off into the night to find him. Would he fret at your absence? Would his heart be moved to seek you out here in the darkness? He would not... he cares not....*  
  
Gimli stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes narrowed. With a snarl, he thrust the shallow, petty notion from his mind. "Not mine!" he growled. Whether it was the distance he had put between himself and Frodo, or whether the events of the night had served to fortify his will, he now recognized the hateful intrusion into his thoughts and he spurned it; it did not belong to him. He might have left his armor behind, but his encompassing concern for his companion proved his shield against such pitiful attempts now to sway him and it was impenetrable. He was in no mood for the Ring's games. Gimli went so far as to sweep a hand about his head with a dismissive motion to ward off the nagging deceit, batting it away as if it were nothing more than a hovering fly seeking to settle.  
  
The moon had climbed higher into the sky. As thin as a nail paring it was and its light touched the water with but a muted glow, but the night was so clear and fine above him that Gimli could make out the dark orb of the moon's completeness that was obscured in shadow.  
  
A bright face marred by the black mark of a violent blow.  
  
Gimli brought his gaze back down to the ground and he moved on, seeking the elf's subtle path. He made a point of stepping firmly between the stones to leave deep, substantial prints in the marl as he passed.


	11. Fickle Games

*"It likes riddles, praps it does, does it?". . . . Riddles were all he could think of. Asking them, and sometimes guessing them, had been the only game he had ever played with other funny creatures sitting in their holes in the long, long ago, before he lost all his friends and was driven away, alone, and crept down, down, into the dark under the mountains.*  
  
Ere the call of the Ring had come, ere malice and hollow hunger replaced light and love, there was to be found the beginning of Gollum's existence, the key to what he had been.  
  
\--------------  
  
Along the banks of the Anduin on a long forgotten day, Smeagol trudged lazily through the tall marsh grasses, the smell of the warm sun upon stagnant water making him wrinkle his nose, weaving and leaping to miss the green pools and sucking mud as he tramped along behind his cousin. His companion was a distance ahead of him and Smeagol was following the swaying grasses. Deagol's warbling voice launched into the air.  
  
"Oh, el-breath gilth-on-kneel,  
  
We do not forget, we who live  
  
Over here, under the trees,  
  
The stars on the sea."  
  
"What in the world are you singing?" Smeagol shouted, and closed the gap between them at a clumsy, mucky run.  
  
Deagol whirled, his face delighted. "What the Fair Folk were singing!" he declared, and he leapt upon a mossy rock and sang the verses again with more gusto. He grinned and bowed floridly, then frantically pinwheeled his arms to keep from tipping off into the marshy water.  
  
"It is not! It doesn't sound a thing like it."  
  
Deagol rolled his eyes. "It's what their song *meant*, coz. Well, sort of. Grandmother said so!"  
  
Deagol had been irritatingly buoyant since yesterday, when a group of half a dozen Fair Folk had passed West over the Great River, pausing along their way to speak with the elders of their small hill-village. It had been some time since any visitors had happened that way and life had just begun to feel dull. Deagol had been ecstatic and spent the entire morning shyly circling the horse which had accompanied the Fair Folk, daring even to dart forward and pet its shining coat when none were looking.  
  
Smeagol picked his way through the mire, scowling, chewing upon a long blade of grass. "It makes no sense, Deagol."  
  
His observation did not dissuade his younger cousin from voicing another chorus of the nonsensical rhyme, this time more loudly and further out of tune. "Perhaps it's a riddle?" Deagol suggested, as the last, painfully dying note drifted away on the breeze.  
  
"It isn't neither a riddle."  
  
"I bet!"  
  
"It isn't! Anyhow, the Fair Folk don't tell riddles. Did you ask grandmother if it was a riddle?" Smeagol's voice rose a little with interest despite the indifference he tried for.  
  
"No. I... didn't... think... to... ask!" Deagol declared, and punctuated his last words by jumping through the mud and water, generously splattering both of them.  
  
"Stop that!"  
  
Deagol stopped. He bent down and gingerly picked up a long, slimy, green stick which lay at his feet. He grasped it, then drove it, splunch!, into the ground. He gestured to it meaningfully. "Stick. In. The. Mud."  
  
Then he screetched and dove pushing through the grasses with Smeagol in pursuit. He did not make it far before his older cousin caught him and tossed him down, rolling him over and over in the muck and slime until Deagol was covered in black ooze and laughing so hard he couldn't stand up.  
  
"Enough! Enough enough...." Deagol gasped, then broke into another fit of giggles. He pushed himself off the ground and stood there blinking water from his eyes. "I don't know what it means, Smeagol, but I liked it right enough." He looked mournfully down at his mud-covered clothing and made a regretful chirking sound. "Father said if I came home like this again, I'd be going about the village bare."  
  
"Perhaps you could sing your song as you went."  
  
\-------------------  
  
Elves were indeed not a people who practiced word-play such as riddlemaking and conundrums; they took little pleasure in shutting their words away in concealing rhymes. Riddling-talk was loved by dwarves and hobbits and dragons who were raised and reared and fashioned their speech within hidden caves and meandering burrows. The elves much preferred to set their words free with clear music and soaring voices, but never let it be said that any elf was to be found lacking in eloquence of a kind when occasion called.  
  
Legolas regarded the little creature rocking and twitching in misery before him and he hastily swept together words which would suffice. The elf carefully shifted his legs from beneath him and pushed himself to his knees. With an eager flash of his verdant eyes, Legolas chanted:  
  
"I run as smooth as any rhyme I love to fall but cannot climb I tremble at every breath of air, And yet shall heaviest burden bear."  
  
Whirling, swirling, the wind danced over the water and tugged at the elf's cloak and tousled his dark hair; it picked up his words and swept them tickling into the creature's ears, and Smeagol ceased the incessant writhing of his hands. He stared blankly at the elf for a moment, then his luminous eyes blinked and focused and his expression twisted into something akin to surprise. He hiccuped hoarsely and made that hard swallowing sound again deep in the back of his throat.  
  
Whatever Smeagol had been expecting, had he expected anything at all, this was not it. He crept sideways uneasily, and then crept back, pacing and picking his way this way and that as he contemplated the elf's purpose.  
  
Legolas forced himself to keep still, though he exulted uncertainly. He had unquestionably garnered the creature's full attention! Emotion was upon Smeagol's face, though the elf struggled to read it. For good or ill, it was no longer that hopeless, morbidly curious expression of the mouse waiting upon the cat, nor was it the hazy greyness of remembered torment. It seemed beyond that.  
  
There was something in Smeagol which was still intrigued by games. It was in the hobbit's story and it was evident in the creature's eyes. Smeagol had enjoyed Legolas's discomfiture over his sudden, strange appearance; a part of him revelled in the elf's attempts to tempt him from his hidden thoughts. Legolas believed this to be so. A wry smile touched his lips and sat quietly, wondering, intrigued.  
  
"Come, Master Smeagol," the elf said. "I am no loremaster, and I deem it to be an easy enough task to unlock my simple verse. Have you not the skill to do so?" Gimli would have recognized the playfully taunting quirk of the elf's eyebrow and his persuasive tone; it was just such the manner Legolas employed to draw the dwarf into countless idle arguments or baited conversations. Gimli hated that look; it had been perfected over the course of several centuries and it rarely failed.  
  
The creature's eyes narrowed at him. Smeagol squirmed, and he sniffed the air as if trying to scent deceit in the elf. Legolas could determine not whether he had drawn Smeagol's thoughts back to his cave and his encounter with Bilbo, or if he had touched upon some other memory from his past; the elf hoped for the latter. Someone had taught Smeagol the rhymes he had dredged from his mind in his battle of wits with Bilbo Baggins; Gollum had certainly not played riddling games with the orcs he throttled in the dark underground of the Misty Mountains.  
  
Smeagol regarded Legolas with a smouldering interest and it seemed, just for an instant, almost as if he might take up the challenge.  
  
Smeagol did respond, but not with the answer the elf expected. He crouched down slowly low to the ground and his breathing deepened. His thin flanks heaved in and out and he looked at Legolas, the glittering slits of his eyes lurking behind heavy lids. He hissed, a soft, prolonged hiss, a rush of air pushed between tight teeth, and he seemed to consider the elf, cracking and flexing his long fingers slowly, emphatically. Considering him.  
  
Legolas steeled his light heart and banished all hints of jest from his demeanor; his face became cool and austere, and he drew himself up imposingly, prepared to fend off an attack.  
  
Smeagol wet his lips, and he spoke with a rasping whisper that prickled the elf's skin.  
  
"It comesss on black wings," he said. "It comes."  
  
\--------------------------  
  
There were tracks here, many tracks, all of the same sort, and they had stirred the smooth sand to mud. Gimli paced forward cautiously with a frown and crouched to examine them. Oddly, they seemed to be the marks of bare feet, trampled near the river's edge; the depressions were filled with gleaming water and sparkled in the starlight. Well, why not? Legolas had sauntered over the snows of Caradhras in naught but light shoes and would certainly not hesitate to stroll unshod along the banks of the Anduin if the mood took him.  
  
But these were not the footprints of the soft-stepping elf. The prints were pressed deeply into the earth and were strangely elongated, faintly webbed; whatever had clambered from the water had dug into the moist earth with grasping toes, like an animal and yet not.  
  
Gimli studied the footprints, his face impassive, his eyes hard and thoughtful. He ran a hand over his thick beard The rocks near the patch of disturbed mud had been overturned, the dirt scraped away as if something had tipped them over to search for the slimy things which hid beneath. His eyes were drawn to a glitter of silver flashing in the moonlight and he rose stiffly to investigate. He retrieved the object from the sifted sand and cleaned the grime away with his thumb. It was a steel buckle from a pack or strap, unadorned and unremarkable other than it was there, upon their eyot, where it should not have been. Gimli's frown deepened.  
  
He fingered the cold metal pensively and puzzled over it, and was feeling just a little pleased at his astuteness at finding it when he turned and stepped on the fish.  
  
Or rather, what was left of a fish. Muttering a disgusted oath, Gimli flicked it over with his foot and stared down at the vile thing. The bulbous, dead white eye of it stared back at him accusingly, as if it had been he who had dragged it from its calm, wet existence to leave it half- eaten and moldering between the stones. The dwarf scowled and kicked sand over it in defiance, then scraped his boot clean upon a nearby rock.  
  
His heavy brow furrowed and he bent to the ground once more. Trodden into the muck at his feet there winked a tiny bit of cloth. Gimli tugged upon it and pulled forth a knotted and torn pocket handkerchief. He smoothed it out upon a rock and discovered the dirty thing to be very much like the blue one Merry used to carry with him in the breast pocket of his jerkin before it had been lost along the road. A light began to dawn in the dwarf's tired mind. Disquieted, he combed through the mud, gathering more of the discarded 'treasure', for that was indeed what this scattered debris had been.  
  
A length of stretched leather. A sharpened stone. A wooden button. A bit of old, white jawbone with broken teeth still clinging to it, too small to belong to any but a child. Gimli grimaced and cast this out into the water. He found as well a shard of crockery and a bent hobnail. A silver penny. A desiccated frog's leg.  
  
His eyes flared with indignation as he pried something dark from a cleft between the rocks... the rounded, familiar shape of an object that startled him immensely, given his thoughts upon it a mere hour ago. His thumb traced the curved side, the scrolling etchwork along the bowl, and the chips and cracks which now marred the edges where it had been knocked about and beaten upon the stones. The long sturdy stem had been snapped off at the shank, and the remains of it were ragged and uneven as if it had been gnawed and chewed.  
  
Gimli's flesh crawled. "Little scavenger!" he spat. He rose and surveyed the small pile of objects at his feet and he strove to make sense of it. Gimli thought he could put a name to that unknown danger lurking in the darkness. A nasty name.  
  
His blood ran suddenly cold in his veins. These were the treasured possessions of a vicious and crafty little creature, cast haphazardly about as if the owner had lost interest. Abandoned carelessly. Abandoned with haste. Abandoned for something more tempting. Perhaps an elf, alone in the dark.  
  
Gimli clutched the battered remnant of his pipe tightly in a white-knuckled hand. His eyes followed the pattern of the splayed footprints from where they led off the riverbank. He pushed himself hastily from the ground and followed. He had at last a clear and unmistakable trail laid out before him to lead him to his companion; he wished he had not found it, and he dreaded what he would come upon when he reached the end.  
  
\-----------------------------------  
  
The elf knelt, half-ready to spring from the ground, and his eyes were sharp and wild. "What is coming, Smeagol?" Legolas demanded apprehensively.  
  
The creature looked fitfully up at the sky, and Legolas did the same. The elf strained his senses, but there was naught to be seen, naught to be heard. The stars shone as they had and the night remained clear. Smeagol tilted his head and gazed towards the south, out over the hills and blasted earth. Legolas also turned his sight, then he prompted Smeagol with a questioning glance.  
  
The creature pawed at his face and feverishly stroked his neck. He raked his hair over his face and peered at Legolas through the ragged strands. "It comes," he said. "On black wingses it comes. He mussst not get it, precious, no, *He* musssst not find it." Smeagol's sharp rasp grew low and his eyes were hopeless; he regarded Legolas with a mixture of weariness and desperation.  
  
Legolas eased a little, and swallowed, and shook his head imperceptibly. "Nay," he whispered softly. "He must not."  
  
Both heard the footsteps approaching ere more could be said. It was the sound of steel-shod boots moving towards them, not the threat which had filled the creature with fear, but a threat nonetheless and Smeagol had yet the presence of mind to pay heed to it. He swivelled his head towards the sound in alarm, then flattened himself upon the ground. He crept a few paces back and stopped, twitching in agitation, clinging to the stones, then crawled further away. He cast a last inscrutable look at the elf, then he turned from him to run. Legolas did not give chase; he watched the pale light of the eyes wink out ere the creature vanished into the darkness. A faint echo of rippling water met the elf's ears and he knew the creature had taken once more to the river's current and had slipped away.  
  
Legolas released a shuddering breath and listened to the rush of the breeze and the river and the beat of his heart. He felt it. It was remote and difficult to discern amidst all that did plague his thoughts and grieve his mind, but the feeling was there. He sensed the presence of a new shadow rising, and heard the distant echo of a fell voice screaming its consecration high upon the wind. It hunted. It was far, far from them yet, but it would come swiftly enough. Upon black wings.  
  
The footsteps drew nearer. A firm tread and short stride which was as familiar to the elf as his own. "Gimli...." the elf murmured. But he did not rise to meet him.  
  
He bowed his head and closed his eyes and waited, willing his hands to cease trembling ere the dwarf arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: What?! Abandon a story? Perish forbid! My most sincere apologies for my delay in taking up this tale once more. Circumstance and state of mind slowed me down. Just because I know where this story is heading doesn't make it any easier to flesh out the chapters and get it there. Even threats and persistent nudging sometimes won't work, but I greatly appreciate the encouragement, you patient people. Your feedback makes this all worthwhile. Well, your feedback and the fact that the dwarf would splice me open with that axe of his while the elf stepped on my neck to keep me planted there if I ever tried running off without finishing their story... Look guys! Another chapter! Stop looking at me like that! AA....!)


	12. To Govern and to Guard

Gimli found the southern tip of the eyot at last. He had begun to feel as if he'd run the full length of the Anduin, though the night tarried and the moon had hardly begun its own trek across the sky. Still the footprints padded along in front of him, teasing his tired mind and coaxing him to follow wearily in their wake over the rocks and gorse. As doughty a dwarf as had ever walked the wealth of the world, the tumult of the past few days and the lack of meaningful sleep had sipped away at his strength; his endurance was flagging much sooner than he would have accepted but he refused to pay heed to his leaden legs. The chase was nearly up, he deemed, for good or ill, and he turned his attention from the meandering trail to look now ahead. He reined his dogged pace into a cautious approach and strove to arrange his faculties in anticipation of the enemy he expected to find waiting for him. When he caught up with Gollum, he thought he just might replace his well-worn boots with new ones fashioned from the creature's slithy little hide.  
  
Gimli picked his way carefully around a bare, subtle outcropping as high and a half as his height and he stole forward along the bank, shifting his burly shoulders beneath his clinging shirt; he tried vainly to bring his heavy breathing to measure so that he could hear and not be heard.  
  
Gollum would be quick and crafty, the dwarf wagered. By all accounts, the creature chose the nighttime to slink and sniff about. Its eyesight would be as sharp as a cat's and its ears twice as keen. Gimli had never seen Gollum, but the loathed descriptions he had been given left little to his imagination and he was rather anticipating a glimpse of it at last. He knew it had followed them since Moria; he could not help but overhear the hushed snatches of discussion between Legolas and Aragorn, and Frodo was ever looking uneasily over his shoulder as if he were afraid of his own shadow, which was exactly the case. Gimli had kept half an eye out for Gollum himself; he had thought casually that it would be a fine thing for the dwarf to catch their unwelcome tagalong ere the Ranger or elf could manage it, but nary a glimpse of glowing eyes nor slap of flapping feet had ever come to his attention before.  
  
If the creature was aware of his approach, would it run or would it creep and crawl and wait to strike at him from the darkness? When cornered it might prove a dangerous thing indeed, but the strangling strength of those clinging fingers would have a time trying to wrap around the sturdy neck of a dwarf. It was likely the creature would bolt, rather, and there was no way to cut off its escape upon an open isle. Lest he could catch Gollum at complete unawares, slaying it or capturing it would be nigh to impossible. He would have to content himself with driving it off.  
  
The creature hunted Legolas. It seemed absurd, but that was what it was doing, and Gimli could not fathom its purpose. Perhaps it was simple malicious mischief, seeking to pick off the lone wanderer from the circle which did protect the Ringbearer. T'was a risky undertaking; only desperation or madness would have compelled Gollum to leave the concealing water upon such an errand. The creature suffered its fair share of either, Gimli had to concede, and desperation and madness oft lent strength beyond natural bonds. That did not sit well with him and he fretted. Likely it was that Legolas would have the upper hand ere Gollum could so much as squeak if the thing was bold enough to draw too near, and yet he had to admit it was also feasible that the unpredictable creature which had so honed its skills at murdering and hiding might prove a match for an unwary wanderer in a place such as this.  
  
Gimli shook off his uncertain fears; there had been no sound come to the dwarf's ears to yet suggest any such thing had happened, and there should have been some indication had a mortal encounter occured between Legolas and Gollum out here in all this darksome silence. That bit of reasoning gave to Gimli some little hope at least, if not much assurance.  
  
The dwarf planted his feet painstakingly and continued forward, choosing firm ground lest the rattle of loosened stones give him away to any who lingered near. He crouched slowly and groped for a sizeable rock, not a little chagrined at having to resort to such a crude weapon but feeling better for having something in his hand should the need for it arise. He clutched the stone, absently hefting it and feeling the rough edges dig into his calloused palm. With the practiced solid grace of a dwarf on the prowl, he eased about the sloping ridge of the eyot's end and squinted out at the sight of the glinting water.  
  
The branch of the river which sundered the small isle from the western shore was here swallowed up by the larger mass carrying on past the eastern bank, and the merging streams closed off the edgemost tip of the island to a sweeping sandy point. Gimli's heart gave a sickening lurch as his eyes came to rest upon a familiar form huddled low to the ground not far in from the water's margin.  
  
He had found Legolas.  
  
The dwarf hesitated; he exhaled slowly and the cool night air misted before his lips. He stood stark-silent for just a moment, absorbing the sight and scanning the shore for any signs of the wretch whose trail had led him here. Gollum's footprints continued on down the shoreline, arching directly towards Legolas, but Gimli could not see the creature, nor was there any movement discernible but for the wave upon wave of rippling moon- lit water and the shifting shine of his companion's hair in the breeze.  
  
Countless theories leapt at him from all the corners of his mind as to why the elf should be slumped upon his knees in the sand as he was; none were pleasant and none were particularly worth dwelling upon. Gimli chewed at his lip with consternation and drew a sleeved arm across his forehead to mop the chill sweat from his brow ere it could sting his eyes. He shifted the rock in his grasp and wiped his hand upon his trousers and watched. Still nothing moved. There was no foe lurking in the shadows; the faint light of the slivered moon bathed the level shoreline enough to give the dwarf a clear view and there was naught to be seen but the elf and the water. Legolas stayed motionless and it seemed at least that he was not in immediate peril.  
  
Or he was beyond peril.  
  
The dwarf bit back a bitter oath and his hopes sank. Had he come too late? The apprehension became too much and with a resigned grunt, Gimli gripped the rock in his hand and stepped into the open. He clambered forward down towards Legolas, sliding through the loose shale and rapidly closing the space between them. He stalked over the sand with baleful determination and silently dared any creeping little night-time thing to cross his path.  
  
The generous slush of gravel and water beneath his boots heralded the dwarf's approach, but Legolas did not look up; he remained kneeling there upon the ground with his head bowed and his hands twisted into a knot in his lap. Gimli faltered to a halt as he drew near and stopped still several paces away. His eyes swept solicitiously over him, seeking any indication that the elf had been hurt, but he could see no blood, no sign of a struggle. Traces of those elongated gripping feet were to be found all about on the wet ground, though the maker of the marks was not. Gimli stood and frowned uncertainly; he folded his arms tightly to hoarde what warmth was left in his body ere the wind could snatch it away and he considered the elf's state.  
  
Legolas was not asleep, for his hands were clenched. When the elf allowed his mind to rest, whether he was lying upon the ground or walking open-eyed along the trail, his hands were slack, relaxed. Gimli had noted this long ago when he had thought it wise to be familiar to the ways of the elf if ever he had need to take him by surprise....  
  
Gimli grimaced and abandoned that particular trail of thought as hastily as he would have abandoned a path leading down a dragon's den; he carefully slid the bit of knowledge back into the recesses of his memories to be locked away and left alone. By Durin's Light, the last thing he needed to do was begin cataloguing the elf's vulnerabilities. He shuddered. Very well, Legolas was not asleep; he was hurt or mired deep in thought. Or ignoring him.  
  
*Deep in thought!* Gimli asserted vehemently. Not ignoring me, not plotting some dire revenge... he is buried deep in thought or lost in pain and is unaware of me, that is all... no more... and why do I hesitate to say something, say anything, after all this toil it has cost me to reach him, and I stand here breathing down his neck and chasing wild speculation.  
  
The dwarf waved away his misgivings and the sibilant whispers and decided it would be wise to speak to the elf ere he fluttered off into complete derangement and began talking to himself aloud.  
  
"Legolas? It is but Gimli, Legolas." The dwarf cursed under his breath. The elf would have to be deaf as a post and as clever as one to not know it was him, but it was all he could think to say. Gimli kept his voice guarded and allowed it to betray neither his weariness nor the worry which brought the elf's name to his lips. He could not quite bring himself to completely lower his guard and so he settled for a show of cautious concern, hoping the elf would respond.  
  
He did. Legolas drew a long, quiet breath and lifted his head. He looked up at the dwarf with eyes that shone wide and staring in the darkness, chasms of emotion which invited the dwarf to fall into them and drown in the misery which filled their depths. Legolas blinked and adjusted, and the emotion was gone, closed back up ere Gimli could begin to try to surmise what it was he had seen there. Legolas offered to him instead a faint, despondent smile.  
  
"Was there any doubt in my mind? Such a dwarvish racket you make as shall give us away to all and sundry between here and Anorien," Legolas quipped gently. "If our hope does lie in secrecy, I shall have to teach you to walk as an elf."  
  
The remark was half-hearted and tossed off his tongue out of habit, Gimli knew, but he responded in like, falling willingly into the easy comfortable rhythm of give and take with Legolas that was familiar to them both.  
  
"Mmmm... aye," he rumbled. "I have a few choice comments to make about the footsteps of the elves this night, my friend, but they are numerous and I've spent too long thinking them up to waste them so readily. I shall keep them to myself for now and plague you with them later." He smiled then, but knew it appeared as stiff upon his face as it felt. The stiltedness of his own deep voice grated upon him and he scoffed at his unease. "What has happened?" the dwarf asked.  
  
Legolas looked positively dishevelled. Strands of damp hair clung to his face and trailed down his neck and shoulders like rivulettes of pitch; his pale skin was streaked with grit and sand and he was dripping wet. The elf's cheeks were bloodless and his clothing was in disarray and caked with mud. His appearance was akin to that of a shipwrecked mariner washed against the beach in the wake of some terrible storm. Gimli thought, and the elf seemed tired and wilted. The common liveliness of his eyes was dulled and dim. It took Gimli aback; this frailty was something he had never expected to see, had never expected to be allowed to see, and he found it unnerved him more than had the anticipation of danger waiting in dark places.  
  
Legolas mimed the dwarf's somewhat uneasy scrutiny, his eyes roving over Gimli with diffident concern, and Gimli knew he likely looked no better than did the elf. He lifted his chin in response and calmly locked his eyes with his companion's. All pretense aside, he thought. We have hid ourselves within our armor long enough and it can protect us no more. Let us see how we shall do without it. His knees did not wish to bend, but he marshalled his will regardless and drew close enough to crouch upon a level with the elf.  
  
Legolas proved less resolute and drew back from him; the wind kicked up and lashed their faces and the elf lowered his head, turning himself away from the touch of the sharp air and the earnest eyes of the dwarf.  
  
"I think I should rather you remain at a distance, my friend," Legolas said.  
  
Gimli took immediate offense. His eyes flashed with indignation and he made to reply, but the elf interrupted him ere he could with an anguished shake of his head.  
  
"Nay, Gimli, you misunderstand me," Legolas said. "I bear no ill will towards you, truly I do not. I would undo aught I have wrought this night and stave back the fey madness which took my mind and guided my deeds, but even now I cannot trust myself to amend matters and not aggravate them."  
  
Gimli looked at Legolas appraisingly. "I see," he rumbled, and he tucked his thumb into his belt. "Therein lies the danger of leaving an elf alone with his thoughts for too long. By now you have condemned yourself beyond hope and have spent your time inventing pretty words to do your misery justice. Do I not deem rightly? And I guess by now you've blown up this minor obstacle into a mountainous calamity to better fit the confines of that vast and immortal mind of yours. I am glad for my own limited imagination. It must be exhausting to be an elf."  
  
Gimli meant his words to be facetious, but regretted them immediately. The slight tap of his sarcasm splintered the veneer of composure the elf had contrived, and between the cracks the dwarf saw the utter exhaustion from which his companion was indeed suffering, body and soul. The elf swallowed hard and kept his eyes averted as if accepting a punishment he deserved. Legolas looked about as unelvish as Gimli could ever remember seeing him. No clever retort was forthcoming, no playful banter; without meaning to, Gimli had struck the elf's heart whilst aiming for his pride.  
  
"And it was you who did fear to aggravate and not amend," the dwarf said brusquely. "Forgive my idle tongue." He tried not to look so closely, but there was no help for it; he caught sight of the deepening dark bruise and bloody gash with which he had marked the elf's flesh.  
  
And to his disgust, a sudden unwelcome surge of hot elation welled up within him. Satisfaction. He tasted the taint of savage delight and licked it from his lips. It was a thrill of warm blood and the rush of superiority over a fallen foe. It was a feeling the seasoned dwarf knew well, but this was something darker even than a warrior's temperament, something which disgusted him. It was hideous lust, gratification in suffering, pleasure laid in cruelty such as nearly drew an indulgent purr from deep within his throat; he choked it back as best he could, bringing his gorge to rise. He berated himself and cast his eyes immediately from the elf to the ground, flushing red with anger and self-reproach.  
  
Legolas was watching him and his fair face was dark. He closed his eyes. "If it was your purpose to seek me here and find satisfaction in seeing an elf brought low, your desire has been fulfilled," he spat bitterly. "Drink in the sight and then let me be."  
  
The heat that did sear through the dwarf's veins evaporated as the sudden quenching of tempered iron. Gimli stiffened and a tremor swept through him; his own fatigue and frustration rendered him mute. All the worry, the determination, the strength he had built up from fragile stores which had carried him thus far now crumbled away at sound of the elf's caustic words, leaving him empty and quaking and unable to move his limbs or his lips.  
  
"Such was not my intention, Legolas," he managed to say at last with some effort. "I find no satisfaction in seeing you in pain."  
  
"I am in no pain," Legolas said.  
  
"Then fortunate you are, son of Thranduil, for you are the only one this evening who is not," Gimli snapped. "Perhaps you enjoy these solitary little excursions in the middle of the night. I find the warmth of a campfire and close comrades preferable to desolate meditation, but elves are strange folk and if this is what suits you, perhaps I should leave you to it!"  
  
Gimli's ears roared and he swallowed hard, trying to clear them. Like fuel flung upon a fire, each word fed a rising fury which would undo both of them. He cast a hand irritably about his head to sweep the shapeless shadow that fanned the flames from his mind ere it could hover nearer and he cursed his own feeble will.  
  
His movement caught Legolas's attention and the elf gave to him an odd look, but Gimli heeded it not. The dwarf rose belatedly to his feet and took a few steps away. He was suddenly very much aware of the weight of the stone he still clutched tightly in his hand as he loomed over the elf. He turned and hurled it far out into the river. The roaring subsided and the blackness fled for the moment; Gimli sighed and forced himself to relax.  
  
"Do not patronize me, Gimli," the elf said.  
  
"Do not lie to me and tell me you are all right," Gimli growled back at him sternly. "Not when I find you here collapsed upon your knees looking as if you have been picked up by your heels and dragged the length and breadth of this place ere being tossed into the river."  
  
Legolas hesitated. "Nor shall such flattery prevail you, my dear dwarf," he said.  
  
Gimli responded with a wry smile. He folded his arms once more and stared intently down at his feet and at nothing in particular.  
  
Legolas looked sadly up at him and asked, "How do the others fare?"  
  
"They sleep," Gimli said. "Frodo keeps watch."  
  
"I meant not to be so long away from you."  
  
"It appears you were distracted." Gimli motioned nigh to the strange tracks which dappled the swaths of smooth sand about them.  
  
"Aye," the elf replied, but offered no more than that.  
  
Gimli remained quiet for a time, his dark eyes brooding beneath his heavy brow, then he reached into his shirt and drew something forth. He tossed it to the elf. "What do you make of that?"  
  
"It is your pipe," Legolas observed laconically, though he examined the broken edges with some interest.  
  
"I lost my pipe in Moria," Gimli said.  
  
Legolas raised an eyebrow and studied again the object in his hand. "Then I should say this bears an almost remarkable likeness to your pipe."  
  
"It *is* my pipe."  
  
Legolas pursed his lips, then handed it back. "Never again shall I think to disparage the might of a dwarf," he said. "Hard enough have I been struck before to quit my senses, but never hard enough to render even those near to me senseless."  
  
Gimli's chest constricted. "A serious enough matter you might make of it to avoid such jesting," he said shortly and tucked his pipe away.  
  
"Such a serious matter I do make of it that I must jest, or break," Legolas said in a low voice. "Peace, Gimli. With ease do I fall into worn ways with you though I know that naught can be as it was. Will you tell me how you came by your pipe?"  
  
"I found it upon the riverbank," Gimli said. "It seems your splay-toed friend is gifted also with nimble fingers."  
  
"Ah," Legolas breathed in understanding. "'What has it got in its pocketses?'"  
  
"Indeed, " Gimli muttered. "I would have been content never to have found out, but such was not my luck. What I should like to know is what took place between the two of you. I have spent the last hour imagining the terrible things I might find when I caught you up, only to discover the thief fled and you unharmed."  
  
"You are disappointed?"  
  
"That is not what I meant and I do not appreciate the implication," Gimli said coldly. "Will you not speak of it?"  
  
"He was here. He is gone." the elf said.  
  
"So much have I gathered, and the creature left without much hinderance, it seems. Whatever did you want to go and let it escape for?"  
  
Legolas stiffened resentfully. "My reasons were my own and I did naught to endanger the Company, though by your manner you do believe it to be so."  
  
Gimli bit his tongue, but found it was too difficult to not strike back when struck first. "Perhaps I do. Perhaps you might deign to give me a clearer answer and thus ease my mind!"  
  
Legolas stood up rather suddenly. He flung his wet cloak over his shoulder with a sodden snap and regarded the dwarf with an imperious glare which belied his haggard appearance. "I doubt very much that anything I might say should even penetrate your mind." The elf slashed his hand through the air with a sharp, negating motion. "I did not ask you to seek for me!"  
  
Gimli bristled. "Nay, you did depart in a fit of self-pity and like a fool, I followed after you to seek peace of mind. Thus is my reward for trying to reason with an elf!"  
  
"A fool you are," Legolas cried, and he seemed to grow taller as his passion climbed. Anger whipped the depths of his green eyes into twin maelstroms of emotion and a glint of silimant light shone within them. "A fool you are, and no companion of mine. I want you nowhere near to me. Get you gone!" the elf ordered.  
  
"I will not!" Gimli clenched his hands into fists and stood his ground belligerently. "I shall not be ordered about by a....." He swallowed the hollow rage which threatened to become real and thanked the Valar for the absence of his axe. "I will not leave," he finished simply. He folded his arms once more to indicate his determination, and to quell the itch which tingled like needles and pins at his fingertips to have at the elf, axe or no axe.  
  
"You will not..." the elf echoed contemptuously. "What is this, Gloin's son? A show of pride? Would you keep up this semblance of friendship and convince even yourself that the ugliness which seethes from your soul this night is a creation of the Ring? It is not. Hard feelings have been there ever between us." Even as the elf said the words, the storm subsided in his eyes and the fey white light in them vanished only to be replaced by a hopeless calm. "Perhaps it shall ever be so. The Ring is an instrument of evil and has not the ability to create what does not exist. It mocks but it cannot make, Gimli.  
  
Gimli felt as if he were near to flying to pieces with frustration, but he looked at Legolas steadily for a long time and his voice was firm when he finally replied. "The Ring makes use of us and twists our excusable faults into inexcusable sins, son of Thranduil. It cannot create but it does feed and distort the tiniest fragments of selfishness and hatred it finds in all our hearts and would turn us to mere beasts at the mercy of our whims and basest natures."  
  
"Are we not?" The elf turned his head and fixed his gaze upon the dwarf. His eyes lingered not upon Gimli's face but upon a point below his folded arms. The dwarf glanced down and noticed the splotching red stain which showed at his ribcage; the dwarf's wound had been aggravated by his exertions and the blood had seeped through the bandaging and the light cloth of his shirt. Gimli grunted with annoyance and cast his cloak forward to hide the tell-tale spot.  
  
"We are not," the dwarf said. "I should not be out here otherwise. Nor should you be, if it was e'en so. You irritate me to distraction at times, my friend... most times, truth be told, but I bear no deep, unfulfilled desire to end that incorrigible eternal life of yours. Do you harbor that much resentment for me?"  
  
The plain hurt in Gimli's voice trussed the heart of the elf and jerked it from his breast; Legolas hung suspended in speechless grief for a shattered second ere he was able to say, "Nay, I do not, Gimli."  
  
"Then come, Legolas. Fight it," the dwarf bade him. "I do not have the strength left to fight it for both of us. A task we did undertake to set aside our differences and now unfairly are we set at unnatural odds. Yet the Ring would use our strife to hinder Frodo's steps, and lest you plan upon leaving the Ringbearer to defend himself, I see no other way for us but to resolve this somehow."  
  
Legolas rubbed the back of his hand across his face and blinked away the sand that dusted his lashes. He drew in a soft sigh and it was his turn to flush with shame. "You speak wisely, Gimli," he said. "My words are but empty maunderings and not at all what I intended. Forgive me, Gimli, but I do feel it still." And he fell quiet once more, his eyes distant.  
  
"Oi!" Gimli exclaimed. "Legolas, stop withdrawing like that. Silence seems to breed contempt between us. Speak if you are troubled."  
  
"I know not what to say," Legolas protested.  
  
"It matters not; speak nevertheless. I should rather hear you speak your own mind than I would listen to the whispered lies of the Ring in my head."  
  
"When I open my mouth I find that the lies of the Ring are what comes forth, Gimli. I should say I am not myself, but no longer can I tell!"  
  
Gimli made to offer a reply, but Legolas turned his back on him and walked away. Gimli started at the sudden end to their conversation and became indignant. "Where are you going?" he demanded, and moved to follow.  
  
Legolas gave no answer, but strode obliviously across the shore and right off into the river.  
  
"Legolas?" The dwarf hitched his cloak about his shoulders and stomped after him, plunging undeterred into the water as well. "Where are you off to, fool of an elf! Turn and speak to me. You cannot leave?"  
  
Surely he was not leaving. The dwarf felt anger rise within him, but the crisp, running water leached it away. "I will not let you leave!" he blustered, but Legolas heeded him not.  
  
"Legolas, by Aule, I will...."  
  
Legolas stopped abruptly ere Gimli could conjure a suitable threat. The elf's grey cloak billowed in the water that eddied about his thighs. Gimli thrust his way to his companion's side, now thrashing up to his waist in the freezing current. The cold sank into his bones; his legs became instantly numb and his voice was sucked from his chest by the shock.  
  
Gimli gritted his teeth and looked Legolas up and down, glowering at the unaffected elf.  
  
"Well?" he gasped finally, realizing that Legolas intended to go no further and meant to remain where he was regardless of the dwarf's uncomfortably tingling extremities. "Why are you standing in the water?" The elf did not answer him, which prompted him to ask again, louder.  
  
"It helps me to think," the elf said, and his voice was almost serene.  
  
Gimli made an indelicate sound and looked out over the stream into the darkness. He nodded sullenly. Then he barked, "Fine! You need all the help you can find." He folded his arms, feeling wet and ridiculous, two conditions he detested. He swung his head to glare up at the tall elf accusingly. "Why am *I* standing in the water?"  
  
"Never have I claimed the ability to fathom your mind, dwarf." Legolas considered him with a lingering side-long look. Gimli caught the definite hint of a smile upon the elf's lips. "I should venture to guess it is an effort to be rid of that scent. It was not so much the noise of your graceless feet which gave you away to me yonder as it was the rather pungent smell of rotting fish which preceded you. I fear to ask what is was you were up to ere you found me."  
  
Gimli cleared his throat and drew himself up haughtily. "As you seemed to prefer Gollum's company to mine this evening, I made an effort to imitate the creature's charms," he said. "Am I to take from your remarks that I have been less than successful?"  
  
Legolas chuckled at that, a mellow sound which was genuinely yielded. "As far as company goes, Gollum was not so disgruntled as some I could name," he replied.  
  
"Gollum does not have to put up with you," the dwarf grumbled. "Dead fish are not so vexing and never argue."  
  
"You have spent time discoursing with dead fish then, have you?"  
  
"Frequently, whenever the opportunity to do so arises," Gimli replied. Oddly, as he stood there freezing to death the dwarf felt the tension between them slacken. It was hardly perceptible, but suddenly he was more aware of aught around him and inside of him. Legolas, too, seemed to revive a little and his eyes were not so bleak. Gimli took the opportunity and ventured, "A bargain I shall make with you, elf. I will spare you the tedious details of my night to this point if you will share yours with me. I would know what the creature was doing here, Legolas."  
  
"Trumping my riddle," the elf said softly. His drawn face eased a little and his shoulders relaxed.  
  
Gimli sighed. "You are in a most interesting humor. Waspish replies and enigmatic hints you offer me in place of straightforward answers; almost as futile it is to try to hold a conversation with you as it once was with Gandalf. Are all elves and wizards as captivated by their own mystique or was I simply unfortunate enough to fall in with two of the worst on this damnable quest?"  
  
"If you must know, these vast and immortal thoughts of mine are preoccupied by a longing for dry clothing and the warmth of a fire, as well as a certain curiosity as to how long a stubborn dwarf might stand here by my side ere he shivered himself to pieces."  
  
A withering stare from the sodden dwarf drew another laugh from the elf, and he hastened to add, "I am sorry, Gimli. I know not what Gollum meant by seeking me. I suspect many things, but all is not yet clear to my mind. I am uneasy, for I fear the Enemy has not been idle during our time in Lorien. What I gleaned from Gollum did much to unsettle me and I had intended to return to camp with all haste. There is a more immediate peril which shall make itself known ere long, I think, and it will not do for any of us to be caught at unawares when it comes."  
  
Gimli let forth a tired breath. "I will not be the one to bring this Company to ruin."  
  
"I would not have this Company brought to ruin at all," Legolas said, "though it seems we court defeat for all our good intentions. We might hold the darkness at bay for a time, but we cannot hope to withstand it. Our presence shall grow to be a burden upon the Ringbearer moreso than it shall benefit him, I fear. He knows this. So much do we expect from Frodo Baggins when we can do so little for him."  
  
Gimli looked sharply at the elf. "You do not suggest that we should abandon him?"  
  
"Nay. Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," the elf said with a smile. "That none of us could do, Gimli son of Gloin, though I fear we shall lose him or be lost to him, verily, even those he does hold closest to his heart. It is but a matter of time. That much is clear to me now."  
  
"Surely not all of us," Gimli muttered. The image came to him of Frodo and his faithful Sam turned against one another as he had Legolas had been turned and his mind recoiled from such a thought. He shared a troubled look with the elf. "Let it not be so. Let the halflings be made of sterner stuff than mere elves and dwarves."  
  
"Elbereth, I could not bear it otherwise. It is my hope," Legolas said. He placed a hand upon the dwarf's shoulder. "Enough. Come, my friend. We carry on past good measure and you are turning a most unseemly blue."  
  
The elf guided him to shore and Gimli allowed himself to be led, but his face was still grim. "Naught has changed, Legolas. If we draw near Frodo, we are in danger and we bring danger to him in turn until we can rid ourselves of the influence of that cursed bit of gold." Gimli stroked his beard. "Too remote is my wish as of yet to personally reduce the Dark Lord to smoking ash with my axe," he grinned fiercely. "I fear I shall have to settle for a less dramatic show of resistance for now." His dark eyes snapped with defiance. "If Frodo is doomed to walk alone, we must do at least what we may to smooth the path before him while we are able."  
  
"So long as we do not smooth his path by slathering it with our own shed blood," Legolas said. He became thoughtful. "It seems the Ring's instinct is to divide and conquer. We shall cling more tightly to one another. If our reason cannot to be trusted, than we shall trust one another beyond all reason and listen to its lies no longer! If it becomes too much for us to bear, we shall have Aragorn or the hobbits dash cold water at us until it looses its hold." The elf's laughing eyes grew solemn, "Do you trust me, Gimli?"  
  
Gimli regarded Legolas. He nodded firmly. "Aye, moreso than I trust myself these days."  
  
"Good. My life is in your hands and yours is in mine. Thereby might we prove some use to Frodo rather than a hindrance."  
  
"An easier thing to put into words than to put to action, I should think," Gimli said.  
  
"As most things are," the elf replied. "So far we have seen naught but feckless flight and light skirmishes with plodding orcs. I should welcome the challenge, I think." Legolas's smile was hesitant, but brave and brilliant as starshine when it came.  
  
Gimli snorted. "Light skirmishes.... Leave us not carry this to imprudent extremes, my enthusiastic elf. It does not bode well with me to make light of the power of the Ring. Such folly is what led to that," the dwarf crooked a finger at Legolas's injured face, "and this," he pressed a hand to his own wound. "We may have a better understanding of the danger, but a danger it remains for us. This is probably a most ridiculous plan conjured by two who should benefit from sleep than plotting, but where you will go, I will follow."  
  
Legolas bowed solemnly, then proffered his hand. Gimli clasped it. "So be it."  
  
"Aye. Now we had best be getting back ere the next watch awakens. After the trouble I took in wresting the first watch from Boromir, he will have my head if he awakens to find that I have left Frodo standing guard in my stead."  
  
They had gone but a little ways when Legolas gave a small cry and suddenly flew around. Gimli frowned after him and wondered if the elf intended some daft foray back into the water, but Legolas loped back to where he had been sitting and scooped something up from the sand. He returned with a sheepish smile upon his face and Sam's cooking-pot tucked under his arm.  
  
"More is the woe I should bring upon myself," the elf said, "had I left this behind and incurred the wrath of Samwise Gamgee."  
  
\-----------------------  
  
Frodo stared at the licking flames of the campfire and mused over the shadowy patterns they wove. Sibilant smoke wafted upwards and mingled with the air, twining and winding higher ere it was snatched and pulled apart by the breeze. It was the Company's wont to let the fire die rather than feed it upon the first watch of the eve except in their travels in climes which were too cold to allow for it. Chill it was here along the banks of the Anduin, but Frodo huddled cozily within the blanket he had cast about his shoulders and he was quite warm. He kept the fire burning because he was waiting, and the dancing flames were better company than the uncertain darkness that lurked beyond.  
  
The fire popped and crackled as it nibbled at some particularly stubborn knot of wood, jolting Frodo from his drowsy thoughts. He roused himself and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then rose from his seat to quietly fetch his waterskin and rid the tickling smoke from his throat. He crouched near their baggage and drank deeply, slaking his thirst. He sat for a moment digging his toes into the sand and listening to the soft sounds of the slumbering Fellowship, then drew another deep draught and let the water trickle over his tongue. When he had emptied the water, he plunked the empty bottle on top of the bundles of supplies and shifted to rise.  
  
He had listened for the sound of the wayward companions returning for such a long time now that it took him several moments to realize he was hearing just that. He looked up past the red flames of the campfire to see the silhouette of two unmistakable figures approaching out of the darkness, and a smile broke over the hobbit's face. He stood and tiptoed softly towards them, blinking rapidly to chase away the phantoms of the firelight which blurred his vision.  
  
Gimli strode ahead of the two and he met the hobbit with a tight smile and a swift embrace. The dwarf stepped back and gave a deep bow.  
  
"At your service, Master Baggins," he growled close to Frodo's ear, then he clapped the halfing upon the back with a strength that nearly bowled Frodo over and moved past him towards the fire. Frodo's smile broadened, though he cringed a little at dwarf's decidedly wet state.  
  
He turned then to look up at Legolas. Frodo hesitated uncertainly and wasn't quite sure what to do, but the elf drew near and knelt before him ere he could make up his mind. This time Legolas reached out and took the hobbit's smaller hands in his own. His eyes were steady and strong and Frodo felt his heart lift at the sight of the conviction within them.  
  
"I ask once more to serve you, Frodo, if you will have me," the elf said.  
  
The hobbit shook his head and ventured meekly, "U-gerino buiach, Legolas, nedio ha galu le esta meldiren a boren."  
  
Legolas laughed lightly. "You bear the accent of an elf of Imladris, with a hint of a halfling of the Shire. It delights me so." He placed Frodo's hands upon his heart. "Onen le cuen, elvellon. Si anira anno le bronwe ufiriel-nin," he replied.  
  
Frodo took him and raised him up and led him back to the fire. Legolas too was soaked quite through, Frodo noted. Whatever the elf and dwarf had been up to this night, it was doubtlessly a tale worthy of hearing and Frodo made a promise to himself to ask when an opportunity arose. For now, he was simply thankful they had returned.  
  
Gimli donned drier garments and came to settle upon his bedroll near to Frodo, who was nestled with Sam in theirs. Frodo lay quietly with his back to Sam's, resting his head upon his elbow, and he watched the dwarf. Gimli was well-pleased and his brown eyes softly reflected the light of the fire's bright embers as he sat soaking up the warmth. The dwarf seemed strong again and Frodo felt a sense of safety being near him. He had missed that most terribly.  
  
The dwarf looked across the fire at Aragorn, who breathed softly, curled upon his side. "Our Ranger sleeps soundly tonight," Gimli murmured. "I have seen him crack an eye at the skitter of a field mouse showing more than a passing interest in our food stores, yet tonight I believe an army of orcs could march through and steal his blankets from under him and he should not stir a hair. He has not moved since our return. Should we wake him?"  
  
"Nay, I should say not. He is weary," Legolas answered him with a quiet voice. He drew near, comfortably clad in clean clothing and looking much more himself. He settled down to sit behind them and said, "He takes more than his share of responsibility in an effort to prove himself a leader. He shall be a good king, though his role chafes him as of yet and he is less able to accept praise for aught he has accomplished than he is to blame himself when best laid plans go awry and those in his charge chance to fall by the wayside."  
  
Gimli snorted. "Tripped, stumbled, and fell head over heels off the wayside to land unflatteringly at the bottom, in our case," he muttered, and he winked at Frodo.  
  
The dwarf's words were enhanced by the late hour and vaulted stillness and they nudged Frodo's tired mind past its limit. He snickered. He stifled the noise, but only snuffed louder. It was all too far removed from the gravity of that awful day and from the certainty of worse days to come. He found himself trying to quell quiet sobs of helpless merriment ere long, overwhelmed by the profound absurdity he made of it all. Gimli regarded him with kind amusement and traded looks with Legolas, and the dwarf chuckled himself, which did not help. Frodo choked and laughed until his eyes streamed and the stitch in his side made it difficult to draw breath. He felt Sam stir beside him in his dreams in protest and Gimli cleared his throat, and Legolas's voice coaxed them both to be silent ere their restlessness got out of hand.  
  
"Hush! Hush, my fine pair of bruilhunaiw, or you shall wake the others," the elf said. "Lie back and sleep," he bade them. "I will keep watch."  
  
At this, Gimli shifted uncomfortably and his face grew grim. Frodo quieted and lay very still, feeling suddenly very hot and resisting the urge to throw off his coverlets, though only a moment ago he had sought their warmth. He hoped the sound of his beating heart was not as loud as it did throb in his ears.  
  
But Legolas seemed to sense the change in Gimli also, and as if responding to some unspoken plea, the elf unfolded his legs and leaned near the dwarf.  
  
"By your leave only, Gimli," he said. "Would it please you better to keep watch with me until Boromir does wake?"  
  
Frodo watched as Gimli looked up at the elf, his jaw tight, and then shook his head. "Nay. Of course not," he said firmly. The dwarf closed his eyes and made a swift motion with his hand about his face as if he were beset by insects. Frodo could see none flying about the air; if aught was to be said about the spell which hung over this barren land, the moths and midges and strident crickets which were the constant companions of those who would sleep under the stars were also scarce. Frodo turned his eyes back to the dwarf curiously, but Gimli laid himself down and drew his thick covers over himself and settled back.  
  
"I should not refuse an offer of sleep when it is freely given," he said. "Take the watch. Just be sure to get some rest yourself this night. If I have a surly elf to deal with come the morning, I shall trade you off for Merry and Peregrin and let Boromir suffer your company."  
  
Frodo sensed something more between them that what was said, but when the elf noticed the hobbit's questioning eyes upon him, he merely nodded reassuringly and motioned for Frodo to lie back.  
  
Ere Frodo allowed his eyes to close, he saw Legolas glance over at Aragorn, and saw the Ranger shift ever so slightly beneath his blankets; the elf narrowed his eyes knowingly and smiled.  
  
Legolas leaned back with a soft song on his lips and thus lulled his companions into deep dreams as he watched over them. Ever did his gaze stray to the skies, however, and he was disquieted to feel the air change about them as the wind ceased and then shifted from the east.  
  
  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
  
Translations (Loosely):  
  
U-gerino buiach, Legolas, nedio ha galu le esta meldiren a boren. (I would not have you serve me, Legolas, but would count it a blessing to call you a friend and ally.)  
  
Onen le cuen, elvellon. Si anira anno le bronwe ufiriel-nin: (I gave to you my bow, elvellon. I would give to you now my undying faith.)  
  
bruilhunaiw: Ah, fun with phonics. My own made-up word compounded of other Sindarin words to form the pl. noun (jaybirds.) Have fun breaking it down, if you like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: Hey hey! Fanfic is back up and functioning. Until I try to post this latest chapter, when the site shall promptly crash again, no doubt.... technology hates me. Even when I have nothing to do with the business end of it. Sorry to have had to wait so long to post this chapter. But look, I included a "well" in the dialogue just for Miss Cam! She has such a melodic scream..... More soon!)


	13. Quite the Same

Sam dreamt he was asleep. It was a queer sensation to say the least, because he was aware he was asleep and dreaming but he could do naught to rouse himself.  
  
He was not where he had been when he had first closed his eyes, this he knew. He was lying upon cold stone -- just like that, with no blanket under him or pillow beneath his head. A moment of panic took him as a recollection he had thought long forgotten came flooding back, of fog upon the Barrow-downs where he had lain beneath the earth and of the feel of icy- cold steel resting across his neck.  
  
But no, he was not there either. There was vague sunlight and the feeling of space around him. He found he could shift his eyes if he tried, and so he looked about him. The light grew stronger or his sight became accustomed to the dimness of the place for he found that he was not alone, that there was someone else beside him, someone with a pale face and eyes that were closed, someone who appeared to be asleep but upon closer reflection, seemed to be not breathing at all. His master. Sam tried to call out to him but could not form the words, could not make his tongue work or his hand reach to touch Frodo. He could only lie there and look at him, pale and unmoving beside him.  
  
A small, nagging voice in his head told him he was being silly and suggested he simply wake up, but Sam remained transfixed by the vividness of what he saw and could not tear his eyes from Frodo's ashen face. It looked somewhat peaceful, and it did not horrify him as he thought it should. His mind was detached not from his body only but from his emotions as well, and he was curious as to his dream's resemblance now to what he had been shown in the Elf-Queen's Mirror. He was more expectant than afraid, he decided. He half-hoped that this dream might offer him more than the Lady's pictures had done and give him answers rather than more questions, but when he tried to concentrate, the nagging voice (which sounded inexplicably more and more like the Gaffer) became louder and prompted him once again to hang off being such a ninny and just wake up. It insisted that something needed his attention in the world outside and that he would do well to take leave of his dream and find out quick what it was. Surely a few more moments of shut-eye couldn't hurt, he reasoned with it, but the voice couldn't be persuaded.  
  
Sam awoke. He cracked open an eye and squinted through the gap in his blankets at the sun peeping churlishly back down at him. He squinched his eye closed again as beams of playful sunshine darted across his delicate vision and glittering motes of light burrowed through the pleasant sleepy haze which had muffled his senses. He yawned to stall for time ere he got himself up. Sam took a deep breath and tasted the thick, woody smell of campfire smoke hanging in the air.  
  
It struck him suddenly then that the sun had been looking down upon him from up, way up, and higher in the sky than it should have done, seeing as he was still neatly tucked away beneath his covers and not yet whisking off down the river in a canoe. It was too warm beneath the blanket and stifling, the chill of the morning having long since burned away. The last trailing remnants of his sleepy lethargy fled from his mind at the realization. His eyes popped wide open and he lifted his head to look around.  
  
A small fire was indeed crackling merrily close by and someone had set up a kettle of water and a lovely steaming platter of breakfast upon the warm rocks. Sam shifted anxiously and saw that Frodo was sleeping peacefully next to him with one arm cast over his head to keep the sun from his face. Sam grunted and shifted and propped himself up on one arm to survey the campsite. His other companions were all up and moving about; Sam marked each of them and their doings with a blinking, dullish interest. He noted with some relief that they were all present and seemed on the whole to be going about their business with comfortable, lackadaisical effort. Merry and Pippin were wrangling over the fire and the food while the others milled nearby, busying themselves with little mid-morning tasks. Naught was out of place or amiss as far as Sam could see, other than the fact that none of them seemed to be concerned with or in a particular hurry to be leaving.  
  
"How would you like your toast, Peregrin? Stuffed up your nose or crumbled down the back of your neck?" Merry's voice sounded distinctly out of sorts, though his back was to Sam and he could not see Merry's face.  
  
"It isn't so bad as all that," Pippin replied. He was perched on a log and artfully arranging a stack of toasted bread upon the platter with studious concentration. "Scrape away the burnt part."  
  
"It's all burnt part."  
  
"Give it to me then, and I'll eat it."  
  
"Very selfless of you, except that you've already eaten enough breakfast to feed a sizable starving village. There shan't be any left for Frodo or Sam, and I'll leave it to you to tell them why. Though given the state of the toast and this lumpy substance you've passed off as porridge, they may thank you for it."  
  
"The others didn't complain. It isn't any fault of my cooking, cousin mine, but your campfire." Pippin paused in his efforts to take a bite and lick his fingers. "I know now why we prefer to have Gimli or Sam build one. Are you not supposed to coax the heat forth and not the smoke?"  
  
"My fire is a grand fire, I'll have you know. And the others didn't complain about breakfast for fear of wasting the morning arguing about it with you." Merry broke off in a fit of coughing as a twist of wind swept the soft grey plumes of smoke from the smouldering fire directly into his face, much to the amusement of Pippin, who laughed uproariously and brandished a toasting fork to ward off his sputtering friend.  
  
"Smoke follows beauty," Merry managed to gasp.  
  
Pippin cast about. He flapped his hand without enthusiasm in the direction of the riverbank behind him. "Splendid! But Legolas is off that way, and he's quite the only one of the lot of us who might qualify. You are certainly no prize in the mornings. Or any other time of the day, come to think of it," he put in.  
  
Pippin looked up at last and saw that Sam was awake and listening to their conversation and he called out, "Hullo, Sam! Good morning. Care for a sup and a bite?" He waved a wedge of bread in the air cheerfully.  
  
Sam crawled from his blankets, careful as not to disturb his master, and nodded a good morning back to the youngest hobbit. "What's this, then?" he asked as he padded towards the fire. "Why are we still here?"  
  
Merry turned to face him with a wry face. He wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand and shook his head to clear it. "Strider decided we should be better for starting off late today," he said hoarsely. "I can't say as I would agree with him so far."  
  
Pippin had been correct; Merry certainly was no prize today. Normally, Meriadoc was an early-riser, but he had apparently also taken the opportunity to sleep in this morning and he looked it. His hair was a nutbrown explosion of curls and he was clad in the rumpled light clothes he had worn to bed. His eyes were still bleary with unshed sleep and were now bloodshot to boot. Pippin too was dressed in suitable fashion for lounging indolently about a breakfast fire but not for setting off upon another day's journey.  
  
Sam's brow wrinkled in thought. The usual hobbit manner of lingering over breakfast and then leisurely tucking into elevenses had not been a practical matter of course during the Fellowship's tramping and more often had it come to pass that they missed meals than they were allowed to sit and enjoy them. Aragorn pressed them on gently most days but press them on he did, on through proper mealtimes and decent hours of sleep with no regard at all to good digestion and their healthy constitutions. It was to the credit of his good-natured hobbit companions that they let Aragorn have his way -- Pippin had tried several times at the onset of their journey to set him aright upon certain matters of civilness ere he had deemed it finally useless to try and alter the set and somewhat unrefined habits of a ranger.  
  
It seemed that Aragorn had finally relented and actually embraced the concept of a late start for once and Sam wondered why. The camp hadn't been disturbed and naught they had brought ashore yesterday had yet been stowed back in the boats, nor their gear readied for departure neither.  
  
Puzzled a little by the change in their routine, Sam mused upon it as he absently began to eat the bowl of porridge Pippin gave to him without thinking to examine the contents first, (which was the wisest thing for it, really.) He stood as he ate and walked about the fire, sending speculative glances every once in a while down towards the shoreline where the rest of the Company looked to be gathered.  
  
Aragorn was kneeling near the water's edge and seemed to be tracing something in the wet sand with his finger as he spoke in earnest with Legolas. Too far were they for Sam to hear anything they said, especially as his ears were filled with the running conversation about toast and smoke which had started up again behind him. Aragorn looked at ease, however, and was talking freely with the elf as if naught was out of the ordinary, even going so far as to throw his head back and laugh at something Legolas had said to him. The elf was standing idly next to the Ranger and motioning with a graceful gesture at the markings he was making, guiding Aragorn's hand with his words.  
  
Gimli and Boromir tarried near the boats and were stooped next to one of the light vessels. The Man of Gondor was running a hand over the hull as if seeking a crack or flaw in the structure as Gimli looked on over his shoulder and shook his bearded head with disapproval.  
  
Sam actually stopped eating for a moment to wonder what that was about. He certainly didn't like the looks of it at all and he fretted for a bit ere he decided he would be happier not knowing what the two of them were discussing. The elves had promised the grey vessels would not sink and that was good enough for the hobbit. His ignorance was not merely bliss in this instance but a necessity if any of them wished to get Samwise Gamgee back into a boat ever again, and so he judiciously turned his gaze back to Aragorn and Legolas and went back to eating his porridge.  
  
The Ranger had risen and was dusting the sand from his hands. He scraped his foot over his markings and motioned briefly and said something to Legolas to which the elf nodded his assent. Aragorn then took leave of the elf and strode back towards the campfire; he seemed preoccupied and his eyes were thoughtful, but he flashed his white teeth in greeting when he saw Sam.  
  
"Good morning, Samwise," he said. "I had begun to wonder if your aversion to water-travel had finally driven you to protest and refuse to leave your bedroll!"  
  
Sam thought that was distinctly unfair of the Ranger to say but he did not tell him so; he returned no answer at all and busied himself instead with more breakfast.  
  
Aragorn paid no mind and circled the fire, then blinked rapidly and turned his head; the smoke which had harried Merry now mischieviously conspired with the breeze and wafted up into the Ranger's weathered face. Pippin gave a wide grin and was on the verge of saying something he would have undoubtedly regretted afterwards but Merry saved him with a quick, effective and silencing poke to the ribs.  
  
Aragorn stepped out of the smoke's path, dismissed it with a sniff, and he bent to reach for the kettle of water. "Keep the fire burning hot, as I have shown you, Master Brandybuck," he instructed Merry. He reproved lightly, "An overabundance of smoke is a sign that fuel is being wasted and an invitation for any who might be lurking nearby to come pay a call on you." Drawing forth a proper cup from his pack and a pinch of leaves from a small pouch he kept close, he set about brewing himself a cup of tea and threw himself back to settle amongst the hobbits.  
  
"Begging your pardon, Strider, but why haven't we set off?" Sam asked. "The morning wears away and here we sit about watching it go."  
  
"There is nothing to be concerned about, Sam," Aragorn assured him. "We shall start out late and travel into the evening, I think. We have had no need for untoward caution so far, but we draw near lands where it is best to now lie low and I have my reasons to think it for the best that we break from our regular habits for a little while. It is my desire to journey through the night and take our rest during the daytime from here on, if we can so manage it."  
  
The notion pleased Sam, who thought the sheltering darkness would help to alleviate the feeling of stark exposure which gripped him as they floated down the river with naught to shield them from unfriendly eyes upon the shore. He had felt these parts to be hostile enough, though no trouble had made itself known as of yet, and he was somewhat apprehensive to hear Aragorn hint at a more troublesome stretch ahead. "How much longer until we take to the land again, Strider?" he asked.  
  
"Less than a week, if all goes well. I daresay I shall then hear of your tired feet and weary legs and be regaled by wistful recollections of our carefree days upon the river." Aragorn's grey eyes were touched with amusement.  
  
"Aye, and my mother was a Bree-lander," Sam declared.  
  
Aragorn chuckled but ere he could say more, he was interrupted by the crunch of gravel and the voices of Legolas and Gimli as they returned from the riverbank. Sudden recollection of the events last night flooded back to Sam and he stretched out his neck to see past Aragorn and get a better look at the elf and dwarf.  
  
"It seems to me to be quite sound," Legolas was saying to Gimli. "I do not think there is cause for worry."  
  
The elf was clad in his usual green and brown, his dusky Lorien cloak folded neatly over one arm, clean and dry. His voice was gentle and easy and he bore neither his weapons nor his quiver upon his back. His hair was loose and hung behind his ears and he walked at Gimli's side with casual, swinging strides. He toyed with a small bit of buttery driftwood he had scooped from the sand, tossing it from hand to hand, seeming unconcerned and unhurried as the others did this morning.  
  
Sam looked carefully at the elf's face, but his eyes seemed relaxed and calm and Legolas should have looked quite himself once more but for the laceration across his cheekbone and the purpled bruise lining his jaw. The wound had been cleansed but still showed plain upon his smooth features. Sam found that he could not help but be drawn to it and he could see naught but the imperfection when he gazed upon the elf.  
  
"You hardly looked at it," Gimli grumbled with exasperation. "How can you be so certain when you gave it not even a second glance?"  
  
Sam turned his attention to Gimli and his eyes swept over the dwarf's appearance with the same scrutiny, but Gimli seemed none the worse for wear. He stalked placidly alongside Legolas, making some effort to keep up, as he sunk into the sand with every stumping step he took. Gimli was clad in merely his shirtsleeves and trousers once more this morn and not his customary coat of steel rings as of yet; Sam could not help but fancy this was perhaps due to the gingerness of the wound he hid beneath his shirt. Nor did Gimli wear his helm, though it should have seemed out of place without his other armor anyhow. The dwarf looked different to Sam, standing there in the daylight without the burden of his steel vestments, and for some reason he could not put his finger on the sight made Sam feel uncomfortable.  
  
"Staring at nothing will hardly turn it to something, Master Dwarf," Legolas had replied.  
  
"I tell you it has begun to warp and if that is not a weak spot measuring almost the breadth of my hand, I shall eat my boots," Gimli said to the elf with a swift snap of his fingers for emphasis.  
  
"I told you breakfast left much to be desired," Merry crowed gleefully and he thumped Pippin on the arm.  
  
"A trick of the shadows or the grain of the wood, Gimli, and nothing more. Boats of the Galadhrim do not wear and will not sink unless we were to set about chopping holes into them," Legolas said to him.  
  
"Was that an accusing look, Master Elf?" the dwarf drolled. "I do not go about looking for something to dig my axe into, if that is what you are thinking, most especially my own boat."  
  
"I said nothing of the sort," Legolas protested.  
  
"A nod is good as a wink to a blind horse," Gimli snorted.  
  
Legolas gave a laugh and replied, but Gimli's words and his own fell upon the deaf ears of Samwise from that point. The hobbit was watching the elf and dwarf warily as they drew nearer and his mood darkened from uncertainty to peevish gloom as he took in their manner. He was distinctly uncomfortable with even the light tone of their quarrelling and listened to it with disbelief. His stomach, which had proved indomitable to Pippin's porridge, had now begun to roil and churn with worry and confusion.  
  
And then the worry shifted to anger inside of him. He looked up at the elf and dwarf and he fought his indignation. He could have shouted at them, had he courage enough. Had he gone out of his head or had they? Sam did truly wonder. For all the grief they had caused his master! and now they stood sparring words with one another when such a thing had nearly led them to disaster. He had not dreamed the awfulness of yestereve, this he knew, and the more he listened to him, the clearer all that had gone on last night came back to him. A flitting shadow crossed his face and he had the distinct feeling that he had missed out on something as usual. Sam wound himself up tight and glared with outrage at the elf and dwarf as they carried on.  
  
Gimli was in the midst of expounding upon elves and blind optimism when he caught the look of burning offense in Sam's brown eyes. He regarded the hobbit with surprise at first, then understanding dawned upon his face and he sobered. He cut short his words to Legolas and reached up to lay a restraining hand upon the elf's arm.  
  
The dwarf considered Sam gravely and then he clumped forward until he stood before the bristling hobbit. "Master Samwise," Gimli addressed him respectfully with a bow. "As it seems I cannot depend upon an unbiased opinion from my companion here as to the stability of our finely crafted boats yonder, would you do me the favour of coming with me to give judgment yourself? I should like to speak with you," he said.  
  
Sam was somewhat taken aback by Gimli's request, unaware as he was that his emotions were as plain as all that; he didn't know that his feelings couldn't possibly be any easier to read upon his naturally open face. He saw the others look at him from the corner of his eye and he flushed and stared sullenly down to the ground. The hobbit's resourcefulness failed him and he could think of no way to escape; he nodded in agreement and followed after the dwarf.  
  
Legolas stepped aside for them and mournfully watched the two go off down to the riverbank. He lingered there for a moment, then looked with concern to the still sleeping Frodo. He murmured something softly to himself and smiled just a little, then the elf came to sit by Aragorn with his arms clasped about his knees; his eyes had grown distant.  
  
Aragorn glanced at the elf. "Gimli will ease his mind, Legolas," he encouraged. Aragorn drew a sip of his tea and hissed as the liquid stung his tongue. He blew across the lip of his cup to cool it, then took another sip and deemed it moderate enough to drink. He crossed his legs and sat back comfortably. He leaned back to look up at the sky. "I suppose it would have been wise to wake him when you and Gimli returned last night, but my concern was with Frodo and I am afraid I did much overlook Sam," he admitted.  
  
Legolas nodded. "So swiftly did I wish to leave the evil memory of it behind that I gave no thought to him. I think it shall take much from Gimli and I to regain Sam's trust," he murmured sadly. "I told him that I would have to cure him someday of his shyness of elves. I am afraid I caused much more damage than that." He flicked the piece of driftwood in his hand into the flames. "And yet I find reassurance in his anger, Aragorn. Sam's loyalty to Frodo is absolute, as it must be."  
  
"We are a Fellowship yet," Aragorn shook his head firmly with disapproval, "and the trust between us, between all of us, cannot be so lightly abandoned. Sam shall have to make allowance."  
  
Legolas said naught; he looked up suddenly and his bright eyes trained upon Merry and Pippin, who had both ceased to talk. They now wore long faces and were politely pretending not to listen to the conversation between the Ranger and the elf.  
  
"And what of you, my young friends?" Legolas asked them. "I know it is your way to assuage your worries with light words, but there are times when laughter cannot lift the spirit. I would know your thoughts upon this matter if you are also troubled and ease your minds, if I might."  
  
Merry exchanged looks with Pippin, then slowly nodded; he lifted his head and regarded Legolas with a seriousness that spoke of the deliberation he had indeed given it.  
  
"Right," Merry began. "I couldn't say whether it was merely wishful thinking upon my part," he explained, "but it seemed to me that you and Gimli had reached some sort of understanding." He cleared his throat and looked a bit guilty. "I didn't think it right to pry, though I must admit to making a few secret plans of my own to kick you both into the river if it got the better of you once again."  
  
Legolas smiled. "I had thought to ask the same from you as a favour."  
  
"Consider it granted," Merry said. "Do you believe you can go on without risking Frodo's safety, Legolas?" the hobbit asked him bluntly.  
  
The smile faded from the elf's face and he lifted his chin. "I do think so, yes."  
  
"Can you promise it, Legolas?" Pippin asked, and if his voice was not quite as sure as Merry's, his eyes were as steady.  
  
"Such a promise I cannot give to you, Peregrin Took," Legolas said to Pippin with rueful honesty. "A warrior who boasts of victory ere the battle has been fought is a braggart or a fool. We are better armed now, Gimli and I, and wiser to the danger, as I hope you all might be. Come what may, we have sworn to hold to one another and protect the Ringbearer to the last of our strength. I hope this does satisfy, for it is all I can offer with any certainty."  
  
"It does," a quiet voice replied.  
  
They turned to see Frodo standing behind them, stretching his arms and pushing back the hair from his eyes. He came forth to stand by Merry somewhat self-consciously, as they all looked at him. "I daresay the Ringbearer might be grateful for less valiant companions with quieter voices this morning, however," he offered to them with a laugh, and their mood lightened a bit.  
  
He rubbed a face, which was cheery if somewhat tired. Pippin rose to give him a seat by the fire. "Why did no one wake me?" Frodo demanded.  
  
"We tried, my dear fellow, but your dauntless snoring drowned out our attempts," Pippin gave an enormous bow of mock respect.  
  
Frodo scowled fiercely. "I'll bring that remark to mind the next time I wake up before you, Peregrin." He reached to help himself to the food, then cast about and asked, "Where has Sam gotten to?"  
  
"Down by the water with Gimli looking for imaginary holes in the boats," Merry said.  
  
"That sounds like an especially ridiculous thing to be doing," Frodo remarked lightly. He poked at the grey porridgy substance in the pot before him and watched with fascinated horror as it sluggishly engulfed the end of his spoon and tried to suck it from his hand.  
  
"I shall prudently leave that for you to tell Gimli," Legolas said. "It is his particular gripe for this morning."  
  
Frodo's face lit with a smile; he looked up uncertainly at the elf and then hastily away again as if with guilt. The Company fell quiet.  
  
Merry cocked his head as if judging whether or not to speak again, but the Brandybuck in him told him he might as well be in for a pint as an ounce.  
  
"Very well," he cleared his throat, "I can see that today is going to pass from quite awkward to worse, and as entertaining as it is to watch you all circle lightly around one another, I don't think we shall get very far that way and I'm becoming antsy just sitting here watching it go on. I can't imagine another few days such as this." Merry gazed at the elf. "Can you still feel it, Legolas?" he asked quizzically. "Is it hard to be near Frodo?"  
  
With a gracious nod to Frodo, Legolas answered him. "It is hard to be near the Ring, not the Ringbearer," he said softly. "Difficult it is, but not such as it was. And in truth, this itself does worry me."  
  
Aragorn looked up at this. "How so, Legolas?" His eyes were suddenly very attentive.  
  
The elf paused. "I expressed my concerns to you when we spoke earlier, Aragorn; as foolish as it may seem, I worry that it has proved so far to be not the challenge we had feared. I know not whether it is but too soon to judge, but Gimli confided in me that he has felt freer of its influence this morningtide as well. Nay, it is not so strong as it was, and I know not what to make of this."  
  
Aragorn tapped his finger upon the cup in his hand pensively, the silver ring he wore grating abrasively against it. "I deem it too soon to judge, Legolas, aye," he said finally, "and I think today we shall do well to simply test the waters, as it were. It seems likely to me that the Ring is simply sporting with us and taunting us with false hopes, but we shall give it time and see." He rose and offered the dregs of his tea to the fire which accepted them with a satisfied sizzle.  
  
"Exhausting is what this all is," Pippin declared with a doleful sigh. "It is one thing to be chased by orcs and spied upon by birds and beasts everywhere we go, but it is quite another thing to wonder if the thoughts in our head are our own. It gives me the shivers."  
  
"You shan't need to worry, Peregrin," Merry said. "Anything creeping into your mind would promptly get lost in the tangle."  
  
"Thank you," Pippin replied and stuck out his tongue.  
  
A booming shout echoed up from the water's edge. "Hi! Legolas! Come!"  
  
The elf stirred himself from his thoughts and lifted his head. "The stubborness of a hobbit has proven a match, perhaps, for the stubborness of a dwarf?" he mused. He looked at the others, his green eyes merry again for a moment. "By your leave, I shall go and see if Gimli is in need of assistance."  
  
Legolas leapt up, skirted his companions seated about the fire and made for the river.  
  
Aragorn watched him go. Frodo wiped the toast crumbs from his shirtfront and stood; he approached the Ranger apprehensively.  
  
"What is it that you are thinking, Aragorn?" the hobbit asked. "Could they have overcome it?"  
  
Aragorn did not answer for a long moment. Then he shook his head and looked at Frodo. "I do not believe so, Frodo. Gimli and Legolas are on their guard and I praise their effort, but I think if they are feeling a respite from the Ring's influence it is because it has chosen to withdraw."  
  
"For what reason?" Frodo wondered, and his hand strayed to the chain about his neck. His lip curled with revulsion as if he held a wild beast by a tether, unable to tame it or loose it and dreading it lest it should tear free.  
  
"I should simply be guessing at its purpose, Frodo, and I will not do such a thing. I would be casting suspicion and doubt with no certainty and weakening the bonds of trust we still must hold to while we travel together. Finish your breakfast and take what rest you can," he bade him. "Your companions are yours still, and they are doing their utmost to remain so. We will leave in a few hours. We shall simply have to take each day as it comes to pass."  
  
\--------------------------  
  
  
  
Gimli matched Sam's listless pace as they made their solitary way down the shore. Neither said a word, nor did they look at one another as they walked, for which Sam was profoundly grateful. He was very aware right then of Gimli's imposing brawn and brusqueness beside him. In his mind he could still see the dwarf's enraged face and the murderous glint in his eye from last night. Though the dwarf walked not tall, he was a formidable presence of bulk and strength to be near and not the sort of company just then to set a nervous hobbit at ease. Sam shuffled a bit sideways as he walked to put some space between them and tried his best to make it look unintentional. Of course, Gimli could not help but notice.  
  
Sam reached the water-line ahead of the dwarf by a few paces and he eyed the boats with a distasteful wrinkle of his nose. Gimli strode forward and sat against the side of the vessel which had shuttled Legolas and himself this far down the Anduin. He did not look at it, however, but at Sam. He motioned for the hobbit to draw nearer, which Sam did reluctantly.  
  
The hobbit came to lean next to him and he stared down at his feet.  
  
"Finely fit the two of us are to be appraising the soundness of a boat, Master Samwise," the dwarf rumbled. "I could not have even recognized the prow from the stern ere we set out from Lorien."  
  
Sam said naught.  
  
"Still I find I must stop and consider the matter each time we shove the thing off into the water," Gimli added.  
  
Sam merely nodded. He was not listening. He was doing his best to bravely blink back the tears from his eyes.  
  
Gimli looked at him kindly. "Ah, Samwise," he said. "We have much disappointed you, the elf and I, have we not? An explanation we should have sought to give you, but I fear the feelings of one halfling became lost amongst the torrent of all our mixed emotions. You have my undivided attention now and if I might make amends, I mean to do it."  
  
"'Tis nothing, Gimli, sir," Sam murmured miserably. "I wouldn't have you trouble yourself over it."  
  
"I had thought you to be a wiser hobbit than that, Samwise Gamgee," Gimli growled. "Speak!"  
  
Sam mustered his courage and met the dwarf's eyes. Gimli nodded encouragingly and as if he had suddenly been given permission, Sam let his worries spill out from him all at once.  
  
"I don't understand," he fumbled angrily. "I don't rightly know whether I should be hurlin' myself between you and Legolas when you fight to stop the two of you or if I should let you be. And Frodo is changing. I don't know why Aragorn is unsure about where we are going and what we should do when we get there and I am afraid he will leave Frodo and me to our own means when we reach the end of it. And I don't know why Boromir behaves so strangely... I just don't understand any of it at all, and I feel as if I should do something about it when I can't," Sam cried. "I can't do anythin' about any of it." His chest heaved with emotion and his face was red and he slunk against the boat to sit dejected in the sand, the picture of complete despair.  
  
Gimli remained silent and listened patiently to the hobbit's outburst. When he was certain that Sam's rage had run its immediate course, he said to him, "Well, Master Samwise, you may take comfort in knowing that you are not alone in your frustration. You are right. There is very little you can do. I know not whether that might ease your heart or make it worse, but it is not up to you to fix any of it. It isn't your fault." The dwarf gave a heavy sigh. "Whether I could make you believe such a thing or not, I can tell you that it is a greater trial to be a part of the cause of all this confusion than it is for you to stand by and watch it."  
  
"It's awful hard," Sam whispered.  
  
"Have some pity upon your beleaguered companions, Samwise," Gimli said. "We find ourselves at war when we could not have expected it, and we are doing the best we can with what he have been given." He slapped his hand down absently upon the wood of the boat beneath him, then looked at it.  
  
"Aye, flimsy as a child's birch-bark canoe and certainly a hazard," he rumbled. "Have you still the rope that the Galadhrim gave to you ere we departed from that fair land, Sam?"  
  
"I do," Sam said despondently.  
  
"You may need it ere we find our next campsite, to fish Legolas and myself out of the river. Keep it handy, lad."  
  
Sam snuffed and gave a slight smile in spite of his misery. "I daresay it might prove sturdy enough, if we should have to test it," he said in a small voice. "I am no judge of boats, but I know a thing or two about rope."  
  
"Indeed?" Gimli prompted him with all seriousness, and the dwarf delved. "An interest you have in the craft?"  
  
"Aye," Sam answered hesitantly. Gimli watched with pleased interest as the spark of enthusiasm ignited the hobbit's modest spirit as a match set to dry leaves. Sam drew up a deep breath. "It is in my family, you might say. My uncle Andfast is a roper and knows a thousand ways to weave it and craft it, and what raw stuff makes the sturdiest rope and which makes the smoothest. I don't know half of what he knows, but I picked up a lot growing up and watching him work."  
  
"I assume this would be the uncle Andy I recall hearing you mention ere I was set upon and blindfolded by that band of overzealous elves in Lorien." Gimli glowered at the memory.  
  
"The same!" Sam told him, now thoroughly warming to the subject. "Andy would have loved to have seen that trick the elves did gettin' us over that stream. He used to pull a few stunts like that himself, he did. Nearly killed himself on an occasion or two." Sam puffed himself up with pride as if it were his own exploits he did relate. With a shy look at the dwarf, he lifted himself from the ground to settle back beside him.  
  
"I should think you may have surpassed your uncle Andy's foolhardiness, Samwise, in keeping the company you have," Gimli said. "Someday the two of you shall swap stories and I should be very surprised if you did not come out on top."  
  
"Maybe," Sam laughed. "Though it should be a close contest. I can remember one time a long while before I had reached my tweens when Andfast and his son Ansy took the dare from my eldest brother Hamson to scale the tallest oak tree that stands upon the Stock Brook crossing in the South Farthing. They rigged a right proper net of ropes and pulleys that worked on the idea of weights and balances, see. A dangerous business it was, since the whole thing counted on both Andy and his son to be alert. If one of them was too slow or let slip just a little bit as they tossed the ropes to each other, one would have fallen and taken them both down, you know. My mum boxed my ears right then and there as we watched, on the off chance that I should ever get it into my head to try somethin' like that."  
  
"But they won the bet?" Gimli asked.  
  
"Aye, they did! Easy as that. Hamson took a year to pay up, mind you, but he did. It was all anybody talked about for a long time after. Andy still tells the tale when he's been in his cups down at the Green Dragon."  
  
Gimli groaned. "A terrible thing it is to bring to mind a cold mug of ale, Samwise, when no ale is at hand nor shall be for a very long time," he admonished.  
  
Sam sighed and nodded mournfully in agreement. "I'm rather dry with talkin' myself," he said quietly, somewhat flustered now at having gone on like that. The halfling's face was once again genial and lighter, however, if not altogether very happy. Gimli looked at him fondly and placed a broad hand upon his shoulder.  
  
"I throw the rope, Sam, and Legolas tosses it back for me," the dwarf told him.  
  
Sam looked up at him blankly.  
  
"You wished for an explanation and I am giving it to you," Gimli said. "You wondered whether you should come between the elf and I in order to save us both from ourselves. I thank you for your concern and your courage. After witnessing our folly last night, I should expect you should be wary of our behaviour, but I would ask you to do nothing of the sort lest we are at the verge of tearing out one another's throats again. It would seem that our strife with one another is what the Ring deems our weakness, Samwise. I know not if it is the wisest course for us but as we cannot avoid our differences, Legolas and I, we have decided to consider it a challenge. The arguments and wrangling may seem a risk but it is a necessary risk if we are to get anywhere upon this quest. It is our way of defying the cursed whispers we both hear that would turn our thoughts against one another. It is our way of letting one another know that we pay no heed to them. I throw the rope and Legolas tosses it back." The dwarf looked at the hobbit, his eyes dark and searching beneath his heavy brow. "Do you understand, Sam? If one of us should fall, we both shall. Perhaps all of us. I do not intend to let us come to grief like that."  
  
Sam thought long and hard about the words given to him, but Gimli could fairly see the determination and acceptance winning out upon the halfling's face.  
  
At last Sam lifted his head stoutly. His expression was resolute. He said, "Nor do I wish to see it happen, Gimli, sir. I reckon I understand it well enough."  
  
"Good lad!" the dwarf exclaimed and slapped him on the back. "I should not like to suffer the scathing looks of an offended hobbit all these long days abroad. It is an effort enough to keep up with our elf and his changeable moods." Gimli glanced back towards the camp. "Having said thus, he is no doubt stewing himself into depression without me as we dally about here. Perhaps we should summon his presence and see what he makes of your uncle Andy's tree-climbing abilities. I should think that might tweak an elf's interest just a bit."  
  
Gimli shouted out Legolas's name with a voice that made Sam's ears ring. There came no immediate answer and so the dwarf stood and offered his hand to Sam to heft him easily back onto his feet. "Come, Samwise. We shall meet him halfway. He will likely consider it an excuse to become testy if I drag him back the entire distance down here again for naught."  
  
Sam followed. He felt better. Better than he had felt, in any case. He trotted along in Gimli's footsteps and thought more about what the dwarf had said to him. Ere he had taken more than a half dozen paces, however, he halted and looked up with sudden wide-eyed concern.  
  
"Gimli?" he said. "There really is nothing wrong with the boats now.... is there?"  
  
The dwarf turned to look at him and broke into laughter.  
  
\-----------------------------  
  
Legolas went swiftly towards the water but ere he had gone as far as that, he looked up to find Boromir was walking towards him from a point upriver, bisecting the elf's path to the boats. Legolas halted and waited for him.  
  
The big man's steps brought him swiftly close. His clean-shaven face was red from the cold water and his hair still dripping, evidence of his morning ablutions. The warrior looked at Legolas with customary surety in his bold eyes.  
  
"By the bellowing I heard down by the boats, I should guess that Gimli wishes for you to join him, Legolas," Boromir said to the elf with a quick grin. "You might want to remind him that we strive for stealth upon this little adventure. That voice of his could shake down a mountain."  
  
Legolas smiled. "He is a dwarf and I fear that could be as close to a whisper as we can expect from him."  
  
Boromir smirked and nodded his head. He made to walk on and he rested a hand amiably upon the elf's shoulder as he passed.  
  
Legolas paused with sudden discomfort and he turned to look at him, a dark question forming in his mind. With a slight movement he drew the man to a halt and brought his attention back to him. "Boromir?"  
  
"Yes?" Boromir saw the worry the elf's eyes and responded in like. "Are you alright, Legolas?"  
  
"I would know this ere you take your leave of me," Legolas said carefully. "Has it become worse for you?"  
  
Boromir blinked. "Worse? I know not what you speak of, my friend."  
  
"Aye, that you do, son of Denethor. I would you might be straightforward, for I am not yet so comfortable discussing it myself."  
  
A deprecating smile touched Boromir's lips and he stood ill-at-ease as if considering how to answer. "Very well," he said shortly. "Nay, Legolas, it has not grown worse. Have I given any of you reason to think so?"  
  
"You have not, Boromir, and I meant no offense," Legolas demurred. He held his hands palms upraised and gave a slight bow. "Please, take none. I am troubled, Boromir, and do but seek to resolve matters that are yet unclear to my mind. Have a care, for I fear we have but tasted of the peril that awaits us. I would not see any be alone to face it."  
  
Legolas heard footsteps draw nigh behind him. Boromir looked past the elf and nodded tersely at Gimli and Sam who now approached them slowly, cautiously, listening uneasily to the conversation they had intruded upon and could not now tactfully avoid.  
  
Boromir sniffed and rubbed his nose, and cast his eyes to the ground and back to the elf. "Perhaps I am beneath its notice and not such prey as it should take much interest in, I cannot say. I know you mean well, Legolas, but I should ask you to have a care for yourself and leave me to my own defenses," he said. He cast a surreptitious glance at Gimli and did not look to Sam. The man turned his back abruptly and walked away.  
  
Legolas stiffened and watched after him, concern filling his fair face, but ere he could speak or move to follow, Gimli came to his side and caught his arm. The elf swallowed the urge to pull irritably away from the dwarf's touch and instead offered him an anxious look.  
  
"He is right," Gimli said under his breath.  
  
"He feels it," Legolas protested. "I can see it in his eyes. I sense it when I am near him."  
  
"Is that not to be expected?" Gimli asked. "Of any of us, Boromir has struggled with it the longest. Of course you feel it in him, as do the others when they are near us. Sam can certainly vouch for that. There is nothing for it. It is a battle we all face, Legolas. Let him fight it as he will."  
  
"Even if his way is denial?" The elf stared ahead with steady eyes. "My fear, Gimli, is that it has withdrawn from us to seek a more susceptible mind."  
  
"You believe Boromir now bears the brunt of it?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"Perhaps," Gimli acquiesced and shrugged. "There is no way of telling, but I say there is not much we can do for it. It is best to leave him be."  
  
"How can you be convinced that is so?"  
  
"My people have had more practice with covetousness and denial, being the greedy, grubbing creatures we are, maybe," Gimli said impatiently. "Take my word upon it and let it go for now."  
  
"His desire, his weakness lies closer to the heart of this quest than does ours, Gimli," he said with a low voice, "you know that. If we were to slay one another, none should suffer but we two. It is not the same."  
  
"I said not that we should ignore it, elf, nor turn a blind eye to his temptation or to ours. But confronting him and bombarding him with words shall do more harm than good, Legolas. Could we have listened? Indeed, Aragorn tried with us and we could hear naught he said."  
  
The elf's brow furrowed and it seemed as if he might argue, but he gave in at last. "It is his battle," he echoed with an uncertain voice.  
  
"Aye," Gimli replied. "We fight ours. Allow him to fight his."  
  
Boromir had rejoined their companions by the fire. Legolas watched him keenly from afar with a mixture of trepidation and sadness in his eyes. "It is by our own folly that the Enemy will defeat us..." the elf intoned quietly.  
  
Gimli looked at him hard, a slight hint of worry showing upon his face. "I should thank you not to surrender our quest ere we have had the chance to see it through," he said gruffly. "If you can find naught but doom and defeat to speak of this morning, Sam and I shall have to kick those long legs of yours out from under you and leave you here for the carrion birds to chew on, if they do not also find you too disagreeable to tolerate.  
  
Legolas did not seem to hear him. After a long space of silence, he said, "Gimli... do not let me fall."  
  
Sam snapped his head around and looked quickly up at Legolas as if he half- expected the elf to collapse on the spot. Never had he heard Legolas plead for anything before, especially from the dwarf. He wondered if Legolas had suffered a more grievous hurt last night than he was aware of, but the same pain was upon Gimli's face as well and at last Sam recognized the precariousness of the situation and the real cause for the strain he could hear in the elf's voice. Sam felt a stab of pity as he regarded his two disparate companions. And for the first time he wondered why the hobbits seemed spared from the Ring's influence; perhaps it was as Boromir said, and they were too insignificant to bother with as well.  
  
Gimli stood quietly for several moments conjuring strength ere he sighed and shook his head. He drew himself up, and with pronounced bluffness in his deep voice he said, "The utter presumptuousness of the elves astounds me! Do not let you fall? You mock my height with your words and your very presence, practically traipsing upon your tip-toes whither you tread, and now you would take me for a walking stick to prop yourself on your feet? Do I look like your crutch, Master Elf?" he demanded.  
  
Legolas raised an eyebrow. He blinked and seemed to return to himself. Then he relaxed as Gimli's words took hold and his lips curved into a smile. He cast a look of sly merriment at Sam who stood by, anxiously shifting his gaze between the elf and the dwarf.  
  
Legolas turned upon Gimli very deliberately and looked down at him, "Nay, I should not waste your virtues as such when you are ever so clearly more well-suited to serve as a doorstop."  
  
"A DOORSTOP?" Gimli roared. He straightened indignantly and his nostrils flared. Then he looked at Sam's cringing face and he winked. "Better," he said. "A rare occasion it is when an elf comes out on top in a war of words with a dwarf, Master Samwise, but our companion here is improving, do you not think? I have hope for him yet."  
  
Sam's expression was pained and he finally managed to find his voice. "Lor bless you, Gimli, sir, Legolas... I know you don't mean it now and you're only whistling down the wind, but my breath catches in my throat when you do that and my heart nearly stops. Please don't."  
  
Gimli chuckled. "Very well. We shall leave off from our games for the moment. I have unruffled a few of Sam's feathers and I think he might forgive us both if we are careful, Legolas...." The dwarf looked up to see the elf still gazing worriedly towards the camp.  
  
Gimli frowned. "Tell me, did you sleep at all last night, Legolas?"  
  
Legolas shook his head negligibly.  
  
"Why not?" the dwarf demanded.  
  
"I felt better keeping watch. And I did not like to leave my mind unguarded," the elf admitted heavily.  
  
"A restless, exhausted mind seems the more susceptible, my friend. If Aragorn ever manages to prod the others from their idle backsides today, will you take your turn for some rest within the boat? I think I might be able to manage a bit of the navigation on my own. That is, if the accursed thing does not split apart in mid-current," he grumbled.  
  
"I will," Legolas agreed, "lest Sam thinks he might succumb to a boredom severe enough to drive him to strike up another conversation with me again," he said.  
  
Sam moaned. "I don't rightly know which of you is worse," he said.  
  
Legolas smiled. "I am sorry, Samwise," he said softly. By his tone, Sam knew the tall elf spoke not of his jesting but of something much deeper. He did not look up at him. He merely took a deep breath and nodded.  
  
"Come, Sam," Gimli's interrupted with a voice that rolled like close thunder in the hobbit's ears. "Let us return ere Frodo thinks we have done away with you. Spirited away by a fey Wood-elf and wild Dwarf! 'Tis a fate which should serve to quell the courage of young hobbit children and cause the elders to tremble in their sleep in all four corners of the Shire. What say you, Legolas? Heroes we are not. Think you perhaps that infamy could be within our reach?"  
  
The elf laughed at Gimli's ludicrous but effective attempts to distract and he began to walk back towards the fire. "I fear you are far too substantial a dwarf to spirit anyone away, friend Gimli," he called. "Frighten them away, perhaps! You are infamous already to those who have made your acquaintance."  
  
Gimli stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I shall take that as a compliment," he said. He bared his teeth at Sam with mock ferociousness and propelled him up the shore with a friendly shove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ME: Anyone mind if I play with the events of Legolas shooting the Nazgul? Anyone? I promise I won't stray far. I like to elaborate and speculate and draw it all out, but I only scribble madly between the lines. : ) I promise some major action coming up as we run out of days along the river. And yeesss... more Gollum. I wonder if Gimli ever will get to see him. Hmm.)


	14. Chapter Title: Coming To Terms

Gollum watched the Company with frustration from the low place where the reeds grew tall.   
  
He watched. And he waited, and he cursed the bright light of the Yellow Face in the blue sky, for it lied. It warmed the land and promised life and gave no hint of the chill threat that blew with the East wind. Death was winging through the air, far away but far too near, like a hawk preying hares, seeking their warm, beating flesh, driven by a hunger that was crueler and a heart that was colder.   
  
And there they basked in the open sunlight without a care.   
  
He watched them and sniffed. He fidgeted and fretted impatiently, kneading the mud beneath him with his fingers and toes for several long, absent moments before he took notice of the promising stickiness of it. He dipped up handfuls of the wet, black earth and began to slap it over himself until it coated his limbs and dripped from his hair. He blinked clinging clumps of it from his eyes and rubbed the dirt over his thin arms. It felt cool upon his skin and it hid him. It was good, very good.   
  
"Sméagol knows how to hide, preciouss, yesss," he muttered. "Sméagol is clever! He knows. Foolishhh! Foolish and silly they are. The day is high! They wastes time in talkingss and eatingss and sleeps when they must make haste. Must run or hide, or they will perishhh. They do not see? They do not listen, precious. We tell him, poor Sméagol does. O yes-s-s-s-s… we tells terrible Elf, Elf-trickster! and still they stayss where they will be found, where the Yellow Face shows them up." He shook his matted hair and struck the ground, spattering the oozing water. "Foolishh," he hissed through his pointed teeth.   
  
He did not know why he had sought out the Elf. He had not intended to. He had thought only to follow him, to make certain the Elf was not being tricksy, deceiving. He had meant to sneak up on the Elf to be sure that Elf was not sneaking up on him, but instead he had found the silly, shining creature standing in the water staring up at the stars, singing those words.   
  
Sméagol glowered. Foolish. He told the Elf, warned him. He had risked much to do so, and he might even have made him see, guess, understand the danger, if he'd only had the time, if it had not been for....   
  
The Dwarf's voice rolled through the air out across the water, shouting a word, a name. Gollum didn’t know and didn’t care. He heeded naught but the loudness of it. He cringed and craned his long, thin neck to peer through the waving reeds. They were lounging upon the shore, the Dwarf and a hobbit. Not the hobbit, he noted with disappointment, but the sober, silent hobbit who belonged to the Baggins. He watched them and swallowed the wicked urge to let out a curdling howl that would send them both scrambling. He chortled at the thought, but he dared not do it. He felt agitation welling up inside him until he thought he should burst with it. Other times, other places where he had willed them to be less vigilant, to ignore the scuff of an errant flapping foot or the prickle of their senses as they felt him gazing at them, they had inevitably come searching for him and given chase. Now, when they should have been most on edge, when he might have welcomed their unease -- if it could but prompt them to move on! -- they seemed oblivious to all but their small doings up there on the little island and lingered longest where it was most unwise to do so.   
  
Gollum crouched there and he watched their activities with glum disinterest. He curled up his toes and rocked back and forth on his heels, humming a low, tuneless song.   
  
The dark presence leapt on his unguarded mind with startling swiftness. It penetrated him, hurting him, and he gasped and swallowed hard, pawing at his neck and throat as if he could feel a hand squeezing there, a rope drawing tight. The Black Hand grasped for him and the iron claws tore the thoughts from him ere he could attempt to ward it away. He could never hide from it, not since they had caught him and broken him. It was old, familiar pain to him now, for it came to him often, but it still terrified him, still overwhelmed him. He choked, gave a muffled screech and clamped his thin arms about his head. "We don't have it!" he yelped. He fell flat to the ground and whimpered into his hands as he covered his mouth and his face.   
  
He listened for a long, painful moment. Then his words changed from faint, fitful pleas to a fawning whine. He answered the Voice haltingly.   
  
"I haven't found it," he sobbed wearily. "It isn't there, gollum! Ach! Sss -- no! It isn't here and it isn't there, and I won't search for it. I won't and I can't. Can't! Can't. They're awake, always awake and waiting to catch me, us. Always awake, always watching," he groaned.   
  
The claws pierced through him, ripping at his soul, mocking him, twisting him until he was a limp, flopping thing pawing at his face, digging at his own flesh with ragged nails. He wept, wept silently so as not to give himself away to those who were near, those who did not understand the danger, those to whom he could not speak and those of whom he would not speak, not to Him, not lest He find them and take it! He wept with quiet, racking sobs. He did not want Him to have it. Sauron’s miserable spy cowered there, shivering silently in the mud. The sound of long, rushing water was pulled from his thoughts and the Black Mind perceived the scent of the boggy reeds that surrounded him.   
  
The Dark One sought the Precious, and yet without the Precious, His Sight could not reach this far yet, across the running water. Gollum let forth a brief, mad, mocking burst of laughter, but it was small satisfaction he felt. He mourned greatly for the hint of their river journey that was taken from him. There were other servants to fear. It would hone the search for them. Hawks to hares. They would find them. Find it.   
  
And when it was returned to Him, He would eat the World.  
  
Gollum babbled softly to himself; the hunger he felt in that brief touch of the Mind overwhelmed him. His own consuming hunger was but a trifle in comparison to His and he trembled, shook, moaned where he crouched, pulled unmercifully in all directions by conflicting desires.   
  
If he had it, he could hide it! It would be his and no one could take it from him, and he would have the strength to keep the Precious from Him forever. But there was no way to get it, not with them guarding it, and there was no help for it. If harm fell upon the hobbit and the others, if he led His servants to it, it might be lost beyond retrieval and taken to Mordor. That wouldn’t do at all. Not at all.  
  
Gollum lifted his head and his eyes were bright and vicious. "Not for you," he growled desperately. He ignored the pain and held out a bit of stubbornness. "It is far, far away and not here. Go away! They are lost. It is lost. I am lost. Go to sleep."  
  
Gollum thought he heard dark laughter. The Hand withdrew, satisfied by what little it had gleaned. There was time after all, time to spare, time to kill, and He was patient.  
  
The wind from the East told of black things rising. Gollum felt the crushing pressure lift a little from him and he found his senses. For several long moments he did not move. He blinked and slowly lifted his head to look up, expecting to see something terrible hovering there. But the blue sky was clear and the air was light and the Sun still made bright, empty promises.  
  
Gollum swallowed. His heartbeat slowed and he took gulping breaths. The mud which covered him had all but hardened into a tenuous grey shell over his glistening black skin. It made him feel more secure, hidden, safe, though it was somewhat difficult to blink his eyes and flex his stiffening fingers. He looked quite like a part of the mudge of the shallows off the River, so much so that a hapless frog took him for such and hopped across his foot. Food had been scarce of late; living things had fled or hidden or were unwholesome in these lands. He snatched it up lightning-quick and squeezed it until it died and he laid it down next to him, licking his thin lips in anticipation of the tender, dangly legs of it.   
  
"Foolisshh..." he sighed, and he took up once more his irascible observation of the others upon the other shore, watching them squander time they did not have. He squinted and sought the hobbit, who remained always away by the fire, surrounded by the others as they came and went. Gollum made small gestures with his hands, as if he might impel them to move, to push onward, but it did no good; they did not heed his silent coaxing.  
  
So there was little he could do but settle in and sit and sulk and listen to them and follow them when he dared to do so. He hated them. He flopped to his belly to the mire and picked at the dried mud upon his knuckles.  
  
"Chessstnuts..." he declared after a bit of sullen contemplation. He made a face, causing the mud to crease and crack about his mouth and eyes. He studied his dirty fingernails indifferently and chewed at them and spat. He sniffed with disdain, then scooped up the frog and held it in front of his nose. "Loves to fall but cannot climbss...." he explained loftily to his catch. "It's water, it is, precious."   
  
Water. The sound of running water filling the air and filling his ears and filling his mind. The sound of the River taken from his thoughts and imperfectly pinpointing their route to the cruel Eye that sought them.   
  
Gollum shook his head. He pulled the frog apart with slow relish and he ate it.   
  
\--------------------  
  
It was early evening when finally the Fellowship set off, well-rested and restless to move on. They left the eyot behind. Some were eager to be off and finish this leg of their journey; some had little desire to stay in that place which had proved to be a small testing ground of their sore hearts. All of them felt time coaxing them insistently onward after their late start and they dipped their oars deeply into the water, pouring their strength into the effort. They rounded the curve of the River to speed South once more, the sleek, swift boats eating up the distance that stretched before them.   
  
There was light chatter and gentle speech between them as they moved, and they spoke of such things as home and family. It was the sort of evening that nurtured these thoughts; the world seemed not so large to those who were cupped beneath its dome of winking, pale stars. The same glittering lights shone down upon the Shire as well as Gondor and the Lonely Mountain, the Greenwood and Rivendell. Their first journey by night awoke in them nervous energy and their enthusiasm swelled as they got underway. They dredged up favorite stories and songs, and endured the game that arose between Merry and Gimli to best one another at bawdy tavern rhymes. (The hobbit proved the victor as a result of Gimli's sound reluctance, given the circumstances, to make use of verses that unflatteringly referred to Elves. Such a constraint rather limited a Dwarf's selection.) They called out to one another, summoning the voices of their companions and answering them in like as folk will do when plunged into uncertain darkness, wishing for company, seeking reassurance that they were not alone.   
  
And so on throughout the dwindling light of the eve until nightfall they embraced the opportunity to speak, those who wished to be heard, and to listen, those who wished to merely belong. Their voices and laughter carried on for some time, becoming softer and more intimate in degrees as the light vanished and shades of twilight grew deeper, until gradually they fell to whiling the time in quiet conversation between those who were closest and shared a boat.  
  
Frodo had been unusually talkative this night, lending his voice often to the banter of the group, even singing a few songs himself. When the Company withdrew, Frodo teased Aragorn into a lengthy discussion upon herb lore, a topic which almost immediately sent Sam spiraling into weary disinterest. It lifted his spirits to see Frodo acting so much more like his old self, but gardener though he was, Sam held a fancy for trees and flowers that caught the eye or leafy vegetables; he was no healer. He listened for a while to them talk about such things as kingsfoil and juniper and pretended to be enthralled until Aragorn launched into a rather explicit discourse upon the merits and effects of aloe-bitters. At this point, Sam firmly blocked up his ears and listened no more.   
  
Despite the fact that he had slept away most of the morning, the darkness suggested sleep to Sam and he was hoodwinked by it like a canary with its cage covered. His eyelids began to droop and his head to nod as the voices of Aragorn and Frodo droned on. An hour passed and true night settled in. He twitched and turned for the umpteenth time in an effort to get comfortable in the uncomfortable boat, and after one last squirm, he found himself looking back over the head of his master and staring at the patterns of the moonlight shimmering upon the water. He stared out at the darkness.  
  
He was quite disconcerted to find that the darkness was staring back at him.   
  
A sudden, slight movement in the water behind the boats caught his sight, a break in the even ripples of the River: At first he but stared at it listlessly, then he sat up and rubbed his face. It looked to be a log floating along in the half-light behind Gimli's boat. Except the log was slowly catching up.   
  
Peculiar, he thought sleepily. They were all floating on the stream together, after all. He ignored it for a moment, but when he turned back, it had gotten closer still.   
  
Then he saw the eyes: two pale sort of points, shiny-like, on a hump at the near end of the log. And the log had paddle-feet, like a swan's almost, only they seemed bigger, and kept dipping in and out of the water. Mesmerized, Sam could only gape for the longest time as he struggled quite literally to make heads or tails of it.  
  
Gimli's back was turned to it and the Dwarf made no sign to suggest he knew it was there, whatever it was. Sam watched it coming along fast now and getting close behind the Dwarf and he sat up straighter, meaning to give a shout to warn him.   
  
But when he looked again, it wasn't there.   
  
Whether those two lamps had spotted Sam moving and staring or whether he came to his senses, he didn't know, but it was gone. He thought he caught a glimpse, with the tail of his eye, as the saying went, of something dark shooting under the shadow of the bank. He could see no more eyes, however.  
  
He was on the verge of interrupting Aragorn and Frodo, but the certainty of what he saw faded with the racing of his heart. What could he have said that would not have made them think he was touched in the head? If any of the others noticed the mysterious log he would have joined the hue and cry, but it seemed no one had.   
  
He rubbed his face and he thought about it for a bit, and came to the conclusion that it was but a trick of the shadows playing upon his overactive imagination. He said to himself scornfully, "Dreaming again, Sam Gamgee," and after a few troubled moments of staring without luck into the water, he shrugged it off and decided to forget about it.   
  
But even as he drowsed once more and closed his eyelids, he could see the lingering afterimage of two pale points of light staring back at him. The recollection of the something-in-the-water came back to him only later when he had rested a little and his mind was not so fuzzy, and when the notion of a log with eyes came to make sudden, chilling sense.  
  
\----------------------------------   
  
Legolas held true to his word and placed his trust in Gimli. He gave his strength to the oar in his hand until their boat had taken them far down the River's path where the way was smooth and straight and the current seemed willing to do most of the work in pulling them along. Then did he lay aside his grey paddle at Gimli's bidding and change places with him, allowing the Dwarf to guide them.  
  
Gimli watched Legolas carefully as the Elf crept to the forefront of their vessel and curled himself up quietly, nestled amongst their blankets and belongings, his cloak drawn about his shoulders, his head upon one arm. Gimli kept a stern eye upon the Elf to make certain he was actually resting and not merely feigning rest to escape an argument. But gradually the slender hand that lay by his cheek relaxed, his breathing deepened, and the blackness of his pupils absorbed the pale color of his open eyes. The Elf did not twitch even the slightest bit when the Dwarf messily crushed the life out of a spider that was attempting to scale the gunwale. Nor did he make any remark a short time later when Gimli nearly lost his oar to a playful eddy of dark water and was forced to make a quick, desperate grab in order to save the paddle and his pride. Gimli grudgingly accepted that Legolas was asleep.   
  
The Dwarf dabbled at the steady, flowing River, sparing just enough concentration for the task, keeping their boat near the others but far enough behind to afford the Elf a little peace. The voices of the younger Halflings in the boat far ahead still drifted back in snatches here and there upon the light breeze, but they were faint and hardly to be heard. It was a quiet night; nevertheless, Gimli watched over Legolas protectively, seeking some reassurance from the smooth, serene face that the Elf's rest was undisturbed and that he did not suffer in sleep the same turmoil that had affected him earlier on.   
  
Protectively!   
  
Protectively. That was interesting. Gimli drew himself up as he came aware all at once to the feeling. He identified it and then chided himself for it.   
  
Protectively indeed. As if he were the Elf's keeper.   
  
And yet, was that not what they had agreed upon? Their lives in one another's hands. Gimli thought about it and decided it was quite an understandable response, after all. This protectiveness he was feeling might be distasteful, but it was justified and not to be wondered at; his interest in the Elf's well-being was an interest in his own. In battle, a warrior's survival oft depended upon the strength of those who fought beside him. If Legolas found not the respite he needed, the Valar knew what danger the archer would bring down upon the heads of his comrades. An Elf was inherently unpredictable as it was.   
  
He knew not why it consistently fell upon his shoulders to mind the Elf upon this journey of theirs, but he supposed he was best suited for the task, resistant as he was to the Elf's wiles and ways. Aye. It was not for the sake of Legolas that he watched over him, but for the sake of them all. Gimli straightened his shoulders a little defensively, as if expecting someone to argue with his reasoning, though he there by himself in the boat.   
  
Thus did the Dwarf appease his sensibilities, and Gimli praised himself for having resolved the matter in so uncomplicated a fashion. Not much lately had proved so blessedly straightforward and almost it was a comfort to set his mind to this task. He had a sworn duty to look out for the Elf and he would do so. This was something upon which he could concentrate, something to ward off errant thought. He settled back and watched the gentle rise and fall of Legolas's sleeping form.   
  
An hour passed. Between the stiff yawns and the splash of his oar, Gimli became acutely aware of other tiny sounds, of the water rippling and the boat creaking, of the wind in the air, of the Elf's breathing, and of the faint voices of their companions up ahead.   
  
In that all-but-silent darkness, Gimli's caught the hint of persuasive poison seeping through his tired mind once more.  
  
It issued forth as if it were primed by the Dwarf's solitary concentration upon his prone companion. It was hardly more than a trifle of suggestion, winding its way through his head, intimating dark deeds that could be done by a vengeful Dwarf while the Elf was oblivious and unaware. The whisper of it was quiet, less insistent, and feeble. It mingled not long with his thoughts ere he was able to recognize it and sieve it out. It was not as strong as it had been. Nay, certainly it was not, as easy as it was to discern and dismiss it. If it had any purpose before, it truly only played with his mind now, as indolently as a child with an old toy that no longer held much interest for it.   
  
Gimli was indignant; he felt somewhat insulted by the Ring's indifference, though immediately he was ashamed of thinking so, even in passing. It could overwhelm him as it had done before if it had the inclination; of this he had no doubt, and thankful he should be that it had all but withdrawn from his mind. He was thankful for that, very much so.   
  
But to Gimli came the words of Legolas that morn which he had deflected, words that had pricked at his fears more than he had let on, and now they rankled his thoughts. He could not dismiss them so easily. What if their peace of mind was being paid for dearly by another member of their party, one who proved to be an easier mark for the Ring's influence? He cursed the Elf and his imagination. He looked up uneasily at the boat which led the way some distance ahead. The Dwarf could make out the outline of Boromir's broad, hunched figure and he felt a stab of guilt. Gimli bit at his lip uneasily, hoping he was not sitting by listening to a haunting drip of dark influence even as Boromir was drowning in it.   
  
Boromir was alone. It seemed to Gimli that Boromir had always stood alone. He arrived without escort in Imladris despite the perilous road he had taken. He had deliberately seated himself apart from the others when they united in debate at the beck of Elrond. Ever had there been that sense of distance about Boromir, even as he traveled with their tight-knit Company; he chose his words sparingly, spoke of naught that was not of utmost importance to him. Always was Boromir willing to lend a hand, though never was he willing to accept one. That was his way.   
  
Gimli stared intensely at Boromir in the darkness as if he could bore straight through the Man and see the inner-workings of his mind. Did he indeed keep council with himself now as was his wont, or had another voice insinuated itself into the silent spaces of his reticent thoughts? Gimli wondered fearfully if the Elf had been right, if Boromir heard the whispers that much more strongly now that it had withdrawn from them, if indeed he and Legolas had only succeeded in routing the Enemy in Boromir's direction.  
  
That did not sit well with the Dwarf at all. Had it been a band of marauding Orcs, he would have stood his ground to allow his comrades a stronger fighting chance; one did not deflect danger from himself if it meant putting another in harm's way.   
  
Boromir was a stalwart companion, arrogant at times but reasonably so; he was a son of noble birth and nobler spirit, one of the few who courted pride graciously. Gimli liked him. He would have made a fine Dwarf. A fearsome fighter he was in battle and direct in his manner. Some would say he was brash, but never did he boast more than he was capable of giving. He was implacable, yet compassionate, and he watched over the little ones of their Company with a generous heart. Gimli could still picture clearly in his mind the sight of Boromir plunging through the white snows of Caradhras with Pippin perched high upon his shoulders. He was one of their Fellowship, for all his singular habits, and if he had grown strange of late, they knew from whence his strangeness did spring. The Ring.   
  
 _“He is your ally. He is your friend."_  Such words had Boromir spoken to him when the Dwarf had knelt in the sand in shame, bleeding within and without after his confrontation with Legolas.   
  
Nay, it was not right that he should have to stand alone! Gimli decided. At this moment, if Boromir had asked, he would have gone with him to Minas Tirith. The question of their path beyond the River's end had lurked in each of the companions' minds these long, last few days, but had Boromir sounded his horn and bade them follow right then and there, Gimli's loyal heart would have leapt to answer his call.  
  
But even as feelings of remorse and conviction stirred within him, Gimli looked at Boromir in the dark, so far removed, and he knew that the fealty of the remaining companions would not be enough for the Man. Gondor had its soldiers. Boromir's desire was not to bring a rag-tag group of wanderers to the White City to add to its defenses. His desire was to bring Frodo there.   
  
To bring with him the salvation his people needed by way of a Halfling with a ring. To prove himself worthy of a king's -- a father's -- pride.   
  
Boromir was the eldest son, Gimli knew. He had been raised to be a leader of Men, taught that his place was to be the first in danger, the first to conquer, and the first in fame. Boromir believed that the fate of his people rested upon his shoulders.  
  
One could not get much more alone than that.   
  
The more Gimli pondered the matter, the stronger was his dread, and he felt it in his stomach like a lead-weight. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and frowned. It was Frodo who needed them. It was Frodo who mattered. It was the Halfling with the too-old eyes and the weary heart plodding into steady shadow who needed them to carry him, and Gimli shuddered with horror at the notion of sweeping the little Ring-bearer unwillingly into war.   
  
It was wrong. The Dwarf could not let him be used so. If Frodo did not choose Minas Tirith, Gimli would go with him the other way, even if it meant abandoning Boromir's cause. Even if it meant standing against Boromir. Perhaps it was the silence, perhaps it was the mood of the darkness about him, but to Gimli came the ominous realization that Boromir would not be so easily denied.   
  
Gimli grieved then, and he prayed that Gondor's champion could be as strong as he believed he was. Stronger, at least, than Glóin's son felt at this moment. Gimli wished he could plunge his hands into the water of the River and hold it back, to slow its hasty course that drew them forward and to put off the day of reckoning that the Fellowship would soon have to face.   
  
Complicated.   
  
Gimli blinked and opened his eyes and he felt suddenly a very great need for company. He yearned to speak with someone. Aulë help him... he yearned to speak with Legolas. He looked to see if the Elf had stirred, if he had noticed the subtle fiddling of the Ring at his mind as well or if he had felt the turbulent thoughts of his companion.   
  
It seemed he had not. The heart of Legolas was running under the stars of a summer night in some northern glade amid the beech-woods. The Dwarf leaned forward to seek for some sign of awareness upon his face, but there was none. For once, it appeared as if Legolas had actually listened to him. Perhaps he had heeded the Dwarf's promise to tie his new handsome wooden bow into a handsome knot if he did not go to sleep. Gimli smiled. He would have to remember that threat.   
  
The Dwarf leaned forward, and he found himself peering down curiously at the Elf's dark eyes as if he could scry their depths. He had not the gift of the Lady of the Wood, however, and look though he might, he could see naught there but eerie, profound absence as Legolas walked far away from the confines of his body through the forests which housed his heart.   
  
It was a way to pass a little time and distract himself from his cold toes. Gimli sat and studied the Elf in repose. He was amused by the sight of him. He wondered if his own eyes would look like that if it were possible for someone to peel back his eyelids to see them while he slept, as he dreamed those sorts of deep dreams that could never be remembered upon awakening, but melted away at the touch of morning's light. What was Elvish sleep like? He wondered if they ever experienced nightmares, or if they mastered their dreams as they liked to think they mastered all else around them. How nice it would be to close your eyes to a dream of your choosing, not haunted by the failures and fears that belonged to the waking world. Gimli wondered if Elves were swept away as mortals were upon unfathomable wings of dreams, or if they merely hung their minds up weightless on a thread of continuous thought, as if in a drawn-out daydream.   
  
And most of all, he wondered how it was that Elves could sleep on like that without their eyes shriveling up and falling out of their sockets.   
  
His own eyes promptly began to water as he considered it; he blinked them rapidly and abruptly drew back, envisioning Legolas waking to find him staring down at him with tears trickling down his face into his beard. He would have to drown himself or the Elf or both of them upon that occurrence. He snorted with ill-humour and drew his sleeve across his face, then gripped the smooth grey staff of the oar and concentrated on giving the water a few strong swipes to clear his head. He shivered at the coolness of the chill night breeze blowing over the water and he huddled deeper into his cloak.   
  
Gimli moved to ease a cramping muscle in his left thigh and swore softly as his boot struck a solid bundle lying near his feet with a dull, metallic clunk. He nudged it out of the way. He had not donned his mail shirt ere they had begun their stretch of the journey that night, but packed it away carefully and stashed it there with him. He had shrugged it on momentarily that morning and found to his extreme vexation that the weight of it irritated his wound most painfully no matter how he padded or bound it. The Elf's white blade had parted through his flesh like a fine edge of broken glass. It bled profusely. Gimli had excused himself from his usual regiment of dressing in his protective layers by professing to his companions a sudden unease at being in a boat whilst being so encumbered. He was quite certain Legolas, at least, had not been fooled, but Gimli would never have admitted to the real reason, and the Elf had not pressed him upon the matter. The Dwarf had reluctantly secured his armour on the floor of the boat along with his axe ere they had disembarked, letting them lie dormant next to Legolas's bow and quiver of arrows till they should once again find themselves in need of the likes of arms and steel.   
  
 _That will be all too soon_ , he deemed with a sigh. He scratched absently at the itching bandaging at his chest. His hand came to rest upon something nestled beneath his shirt. His expression grew lighter and he drew that something out with extreme care. He held it close, drawing off his leather gloves with his teeth in order to hold it securely in his bare hands, and he gladly abandoned his cares to reflect upon this dear possession.   
  
Those golden strands he kept tucked away within an empty tinderbox to shield it from the filth and soil of his travels, encased near his heart. Perhaps it was not the most proper setting for such a treasure, but it served to keep it safe. He did not open the lid, for he could see clearly what was inside of it, could see it in his mind's eye as it had looked to him when she had pressed it into his calloused palm with her small, warm, white hand. He held the box with reverence and a faint smile graced his lips at the memory.   
  
Someday he would return to his home and craft such a housing for the delicate wisps of hair that all eyes should marvel at it, and share in some measure of the joy that had infused his spirit upon receiving this show of her favour. Wrought of pure gold it should be, he mused, worked into wondrous shape as befitted his memory of Lórien. Even as he fingered gold in his mind and imagined the making of it, however, he frowned with disappointment. The Lady's gift should put even the purest of gold to shame by comparison.   
  
Gold would not do. That was a rare admission for a Dwarf to make, but it was true in this case. It seemed to him suddenly a base and common metal unfit for such a task. Perhaps imperishable crystal, as clear as the light and the air! With the proper skill and time spent it could be a thing of such beauty that it would surpass all other treasures. The Arkenstone of Thrain would be but a bauble....   
  
He stiffened.   
  
Glittering crystal facets and glorious Elf Queens vanished all at once from his thoughts as his ears caught a faint plashing noise from behind him. He might have thought nothing of it, had it not been accompanied by the rise of the hairs upon his neck that told him he was being watched. He reminded himself uneasily that theirs was the last boat; it was only with great effort that he stopped himself from whipping his head around to have a look.   
  
He listened hard. He could have been mistaken. It could have been the noise of an animal or a leaping fish, or merely the type of queer sound one could expect to hear by a River at night, but Gimli did not think so. There were no animals here.  
  
"What is it?" Legolas murmured. The Elf stirred and lifted his head and his eyes met the Dwarf's in the darkness.  
  
"We have company," Gimli said, his voice low.   
  
Legolas blinked with surprise and became hotly aware; he slid back carefully and sat up to rest against the boat's narrow pointed prow. He looked past the Dwarf, his shining eyes as sharp as knives, piercing the night, seeking their mark.  
  
Gimli remained motionless, clutching his paddle with numb hands, his gloves lying in his lap beneath the tinderbox. He knew what followed them. He did not try to look back himself but instead watched for the reaction upon the Elf's face.   
  
In the space of a few heartbeats, Legolas's eyes found their target and they widened with wonder, gleaming so brightly that Gimli almost thought he could see the creature reflected there.   
  
"It is him," Legolas breathed softly.  
  
"Delightful," Gimli grunted. His shoulders relaxed a little. "And what, pray tell me, are we to do about it sitting here in this boat? I have naught to spare to throw at it. I could smack it with my oar."  
  
"He is not yet so near as that," Legolas whispered. "He is floating a goodly way back, half-submerged, pushing through the water like a salamander."  
  
"Do we alert the others?" Gimli asked, his lips barely moving. He yearned to glance behind him and catch a glimpse of the creature, though it was unlikely he should see much of him if Gollum was in the black water and keeping his distance.   
  
"It should do no good, I think. They could do no more about it than we can. He would vanish ere we could raise the alarm."  
  
"I do not like to encourage its notion that it can follow us whither it will without consequence," Gimli hissed. "It means dark mischief and more besides. Had I the means, I would kill the thing now and spare us the trouble later."  
  
"Hush, Gimli, please," Legolas bade him. "Speak softly if you must speak at all." A line of irritation creased his brow, though his peerless sight did not stray for an instant from the creature. "Do not frighten him away."   
  
Gimli cast the Elf a sour look. "Aye, the last thing I should want to do is frighten it away," he said. "What would you have us do, Master Elf? Throw food to it, coax it along behind us until we stop to rest? Ask Aragorn if we might keep it as a pet to fawn about and lick our boots and cut our throats in our sleep?" The Dwarf's whisper rose to a loud murmur. "Aragorn has leashed and led it before and I doubt he should be so eager to try it again."   
  
"He is not an animal," Legolas snapped. This time he spared Gimli a glance, but it was a disapproving one and bore with it a strong conviction that the Dwarf hesitated for a moment to challenge.   
  
"Nay, not an animal," agreed Gimli. "No animal could fill me with the loathing I have for this creature. An animal has reason and is not so wakeful to destroy, lest it be threatened or hungry!"  
  
"He hungers most desperately, most deeply," said Legolas. "He belongs to the Ring and is drawn to it."  
  
Gimli's jaw tightened. He stared at the Elf, then he leaned forward to scoop up a generous amount of gravel and slushed sand from the floor of the boat that they had brought in with their feet. Gimli straightened and with a quick movement, he cast the dirt far out over his shoulder. It struck the water with a noise that could hardly be heard, but it did the trick. He saw the Elf's eyes flicker and follow the creature's movement as it fled.   
  
Regret came across Legolas's face and he looked irritably at the Dwarf. "He is gone," he said stiffly. "Beneath the surface of the water and to the darkness of the shore. Why did you do that?"  
  
"I have no doubt it will return. Be not disappointed," Gimli snorted. "Next time I shall be better armed and have something more than a handful of sand waiting for it."  
  
"He should not be so hard to kill," the Elf replied angrily. "No thought need even to be spared for it, no more than a Dwarf might give ere he crushed a spider!"  
  
Gimli narrowed his eyes accusingly. "Nay, no more than that, nor any more thought than a Dwarf might give ere he thrashed the deception out of a certain Wood-elf! You promised you would sleep!"  
  
"I was asleep! I was not senseless," said Legolas.   
  
"Then I shall not excuse your folly as being a result of exhaustion," Gimli retorted. "Give me no such sentimental clap-trap about all life having value, Legolas. I have watched you fell more foes with your arrows than I should care to count. If you stopped to grieve over every life you took, we should still be lingering in the Chamber of Mazurbul waiting upon you to finish up. Almost you are as lethal in battle as I am," the Dwarf admitted reluctantly.  
  
Legolas ignored the compliment. He grew quite serious. "I do regret every life which has been lost in this struggle," said the Elf. "The grief of my people for the Orcs runs deeply. Folly you may deem it, but I do still hope that every arrow I loose grants not merely death, but perhaps release as well."  
  
Gimli glowered at him. "Were you a Dwarf, I should call your bluff and call you a maudlin Elf. As you are a maudlin Elf, I suppose I haven't much hope that such a chastisement will do much good. Gollum is the Ring's slave. I care not what spurs him to seek the thing, only that he does seek it and would murder to get it. The seeds of his evil intentions are of little interest to me, and it matters to me not whether he finds 'release' or dark death at my hands. To pity him is impractical, and mercy he deserves not."  
  
"You have not seen him."  
  
"I think it were better you never had!"  
  
"Perhaps," Legolas ceded. "Shall I then walk forth with my eyes shut? I would be blissfully ignorant, at least until I strayed off into shadow in my blindness."  
  
Gimli decided he liked the Elf better when he was asleep after all. He pressed his fingers to his temple and his voice rose with conviction. "I speak not of blindness, Legolas, but of resolution!"  
  
The Elf was startled a little by the Dwarf's fervent tone. He looked at him searchingly. "You are troubled by more than you let on," he said. "What grieves you?"   
  
Gimli did not immediately reply. His expression was pained. He shifted away. He reached out to drag his fingers through the surface of the icy water and ran them through his hair. He made a prolonged act of tucking the tinderbox under his shirt once more and drawing his gloves back onto his hands. He looked up to find that the Elf's inquisitive eyes were still upon him, waiting for an answer.   
  
Gimli cleared his throat. "If we allow pity and uncertainty to stay our hands when dealing with such an enemy as Gollum, what shall we do when we must confront a friend?" he asked.  
  
"Ah," Legolas breathed in understanding. "Boromir. Do you think it shall come to that?"  
  
"I made light of it with Sam standing nigh, but yes, I do think it will come to that," Gimli answered glumly. "He fights his own battle, but I do not think he will prove the victor. Our journey draws near an end of sorts, Legolas, once we run out of river. I have given it thought and I cannot imagine it ending well."  
  
Legolas bit at his lip, then gave a light, humourless laugh. "Now which of us is embracing doom and defeat?"  
  
"I am not embracing such things, Elf," Gimli said. "They have wrapped their arms about me and are trying to drag me down. I am but seeking a way to escape them."  
  
Legolas was silent for a bit, and then he asked, "Where would you go, Gimli? Would you choose Minas Tirith and come to the aid of its people, or would you walk into Mordor and the threat that lies there?"  
  
The name of the Black Land was not a pleasant sound to hear uttered from an Elf's lips and it made Gimli shiver. This was a question which the two companions had thought to ask one another often, but neither of them had yet done so.   
  
Gimli sighed. "I would have chosen Gondor, but I will not abandon Frodo. Our duty is to him, and though Gandalf is gone, Frodo must still go on to fulfill his task. I think his road will lead him into shadow and not into war. It would be a mistake to take the Ring to Gondor."  
  
Legolas nodded. "Whether or not Frodo knows it yet himself, I believe you are right."   
  
The Dwarf closed his eyes, and he spoke of the fear he could no longer bear to keep to himself. "Legolas... Boromir will not go with him into Mordor, nor do I think he will let him go if Frodo makes that choice."  
  
"I know," replied Legolas.   
  
"The damned Ring spurs his ambition and could drive him to deeds I do not like to think upon. You hesitate to condemn Gollum, then how can I look to you for aid if Boromir falls prey to the same evil? He is as much a victim, and more, he is our friend. What if he succumbs, Legolas?" the Dwarf demanded. "I do not know that I could slay him if I had to. I know I could not." His voice sank. "It is not your weakness but mine I do fear," he admitted. He laughed then, but it was a hopeless sound and filled with shame. "One moment I am agony over a friend against whom I have raised a wrongful hand, and the next I am grinding my teeth at the thought of striking another down."  
  
Legolas saw then the awful burden the Dwarf had taken upon himself. He saw the slump of his shoulders and the care upon his face and the Dwarf seemed to age even as he watched. Gimli was miserable, and his eyes were as dark as the night which surrounded them. Legolas regretted sleeping and leaving him alone to brood as he had. The Elf looked at him with concern.   
  
It was a terrible vow, but Legolas's voice was calm and certain when he made it.   
  
"Then he will meet his death and, Elbereth willing, find release at my hands, and not yours, Gimli,” he said quietly. “I will not hesitate. This deed shall not fall to you, come what may. I make you that promise.”  
  
The Elf's words were not what Gimli had expected at all, and yet as Legolas spoke them, it seemed to the Dwarf as if a weight had been lifted from his chest and he could breath again. He looked up and regarded him gravely, and with a little shock.  
  
"You fret and fuss over the feelings of a foul creature such as Gollum and yet such a vow you make without so much as a second thought?" Gimli asked hoarsely.  
  
"Think you I am so heartless?" the Elf murmured. He smiled sadly. "Do you believe you are the only one who has mulled this over in your mind, my dear Dwarf? I have given it thought ere now, Gimli, and a second thought, and another, and more than I should like to count. I would never speak of it to any but you, though Aragorn does bear a knife unclasped at his belt even as he sleeps. The trust of this Company is sundered, Gimli, because there is an enemy among us, and it is not the wretched little creature who creeps along behind us."  
  
"It will take Boromir...." said Gimli.  
  
"Aye, it may. But we will not let it take him far," declared Legolas. He smiled. "Come! Up with your beard, Glóin's son! Ease your mind. Take your own sage advice. It is Boromir's battle and there is hope. We are not yet at the end of our journey and there is no use in mourning things which have not happened, and may never come to pass." The Elf cast a meaningful look over his shoulder. "It seems we have fallen behind!" he observed with dismay. "I have it in me to paddle for a while now, if you need to coddle your strength."  
  
It was well that they were out of earshot of the others still, for Gimli's next words were not of the sort meant for polite company -- nor impolite company, nor anyone else, for that matter, other than the capricious Elf who sat laughing before him. The Dwarf did not lay down his oar, but stomped upon Legolas’s, pinning it to the floor to prevent the Elf from picking it up. With a mighty thrust of his arms, he pushed their boat forward.   
  
"We shall tell Aragorn of Gollum when we stop," the Dwarf grunted between strokes. "He would wish to know."  
  
"He knows already that Sméagol is nigh to stepping in our tracks ere our feet have left them. I told him of my encounter with the creature. I told him of Sméagol’s riddle. He thought it unnecessary to alarm the others without need," Legolas replied.   
  
"I think it quite necessary," Gimli frowned, "but I will not go against Aragorn's bidding."  
  
"It seems you are worrying enough for all of us," Legolas said. "What, then, could lighten a Dwarf's heart? Strong ale? A ready pipe? A mountain of gold? I fear that I must admit to an appalling lack of foresight; I did think to bring none of these things along with me." Legolas leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, casting his eyes skyward in contemplation. "If I could only but recall the verses of Master Meriadoc's last lyric endeavor this eve," he said with a quirk of an eyebrow, "I could perhaps cheer you then with a song. Ah!"   
  
With no further warning, Legolas trilled:  
  
A fine, toothsome lass,  
  
She becomes bold and crass,  
  
With a drop in her eye to save her.  
  
To kiss her is peril,  
  
'Til we roll out the barrel,  
  
Then in love my dear love is much braver....  
  
Gimli ceased to paddle. His eyes went wide and he interrupted Legolas ere he could continue.   
  
"Ai! Enough!  _Stop_!" he begged. "It was terrible poetry as Merry gave it, and it is worse when sung by  _you_!" He grimaced. "I should be very content to leave off further mention of hobbit maids and their virtues for the remainder of this night, thank you. The imagining of it is quite enough to defeat what little sanity I have left."   
  
The Elf and Dwarf looked at one another solemnly. Then wicked grins covered their faces and they burst into gleeful laughter.  
  
Aragorn's low whistle echoed back over the water from quite a distance ahead, where the rest of the boats had slowed to wait for them. Legolas whistled in reply, once he had managed to draw breath enough to do so. Gimli shook his head and wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes with the tip of his beard; he dutifully bent his back to the oar once more to drive them faster forward and catch them up.  
  
"Far too long have we been upon this river, Elf!" declared Gimli in a loud voice as he brought their boat sliding back into place behind the others. "Let us persuade Aragorn to find us a good skirmish, a friendly war, a nice bit of combat and mayhem to entertain us! Surely he owes us that much!"  
  
Aragorn sat half-turned looking back at them. "That may be, Master Gimli," he called, "though I fear any Orcs we meet shall be too feeble with age to provide any challenge, if a certain Elf and Dwarf continue to tarry!"   
  
"Grant me some leisure, Aragorn," Legolas implored. "I must conserve my strength ere I am forced once again to rush about saving Gimli in battle. Alas! A Dwarf's axe is as unwieldy as his wit."   
  
Unfortunately, Legolas’s lament proved partially true; Gimli’s wit chose that moment to fail him. The Elf's words set Gimli to spluttering most ineffectually and cursing as only a Dwarf can curse all the rest of the night. So affronted was he that he never managed to best Legolas, but neither did his mind sink back to that dark place of dread it had found. Had he been not so preoccupied trying to handily offend the Elf, he might have thanked him for that.


	15. Stirrings and Truths

_He hid the body well. It was a shallow hole, but they were far from home. It was hot, dusty work and his face was streaked with sweat and dirt by the time he was ready to put Déagol there beneath the trees by the small pool where no one would ever find him.  
  
He folded Déagol’s hands upon his breast, placing the left hand over the right one to hide the poor broken fingers. He covered him, covered him all up carefully with the soil, scraping it and patting it over top of him until only his head was visible. The eyes were still open, fixed upon the bright blue sky above, though they themselves were cloudy and dark. Dirt clung to the lashes and the small face looked stark and pale, nestled there in the black earth and leaves.   
  
Sméagol sat next to the grave for a very long time.   
  
At last he gave a small chortle and he crawled forward to him on his belly. He peered into the hole and reached out to lay a hand upon Déagol’s cold brow. He smiled and petted back the curly dark hair. “I won’t tell,” he crooned. “I won’t tell them what you did, I won’t. I promise!” He traced a finger down the smooth, dead face.   
  
He stopped at the sunken bruises about the throat. His hand recoiled and his smile fell away. His shoulders collapsed and he began to shake. He looked at the ugly purple marks pressed deep into Déagol’s soft gullet and his own throat seized. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow; he choked and heaved, twisting with pain.   
  
He coughed violently and a bit of air came through to him, and then he wept. The ache in him grew and grew. “I didn’t mean to. Oh, I didn’t!” he sobbed. He repeated the words over and over and rocked back and forth on his heels like a child. He was a child. They were both children.  
  
Of course he hadn’t meant to do it. It wasn’t his fault. He sniffled and brought his chin up a little, and the tears ceased to flow. He dragged the back of his hand over his eyes and he swallowed hard, trying to dispel the lump that sat in his throat. Then he reached down deep into the pocket of his filthy, torn breeches. He fingered the small, polished, perfect ring nestled there and his loneliness faded. The ache went away. He drew the smooth band out and stared at it with wide eyes and if there was fear in him of the golden thing, it was tucked deep inside him, buried in some dark, screaming corner of his mind.  
  
“I won’t tell,” said Sméagol. He stuffed the ring back into his pocket, for he did not wish to drop it or lose it. It was far too precious to risk. He groped numbly and scrabbled in the dirt and hastily finished his task. Evening was coming on and he had to get home before they began to worry about him. He wanted to go home. _  
  
\------------  
  
The dampness that morning clung to their bedrolls, their clothing, their hair. No rain fell, but there was a chill, thin mist that hovered over the ground and wound about their bodies, leeching the warmth from their skin. Everything was clammy and cool and a fire would have been a welcome addition to the camp in that grey, transitory hour between night and day, but no one suggested a fire, not even the hobbits. It was a different sort of feeling that permeated the air this particular morning, and they were too preoccupied and drowsy to do more than give a bothered sigh over their damp, clinging things ere they cast themselves down to sleep.  
  
They had stopped an hour before daybreak, shoring their boats upon the western bank. They made a frugal camp some distance from the water, lying as hidden as the land would allow. No fire did they light; they took but a cold supper and then retired, sprawled upon the ground, cocooned beneath their grey cloaks amidst the scrub brush in a small hollow.   
  
Gimli was the first to close his eyes, after an entire night spent at the oar in a fit of stubborn pride. He had refused Legolas’s offers to relieve him, but that did not stop him from loudly blaming his companion for his aching body as he unrolled his blankets and collapsed. If Legolas bore any guilt over the matter, he hid it well. The Elf watched over the company as they laid themselves out, and then he went out of his way to step over the Dwarf as he left to wander the area.   
  
Sam sneezed and wiped at his nose and laid for a bit watching the trails of mist writhe and weave above his head like vaporous serpents, luring his mind from restful dreams into abstraction. He was worrying again, thinking about shining, staring eyes in the dark, and he could not seem to get warm. He shivered and coughed and wrinkled his nose at the pillowy fog. He was tired of sleeping on the cold ground instead of a warm bed. It felt as if they were all lost in the eerie greyness, and Sam could not rid himself of the fancy that when the mist faded, they would shimmer out of sight too, vanished from earth and eyes for good and for ever. It was a child’s fear, but it gave him a very lonesome feeling just the same.  
  
“Strider?” Sam’s hushed voice twined with the wisps of haze; it was snatched from his lips and dissipated ere it could carry far. It sounded small, and he cleared his throat and felt a fool for it.   
  
There was a subtle creak of leather and he felt Aragorn move nearby. “What is it, Sam?” asked the Ranger. Sam caught the soft sound of pipe-smoke being drawn and tasted.   
  
“You told us once a long time ago that you watched over the Shire when Gandalf was away,” whispered Sam.  
  
“I said so, and did so, aye,” said Aragorn.  
  
“Had you ever run across any of the four of us ere you met us in Bree?” Sam raised his head a little to hear the better. Noise was distorted by the heavy air and Aragorn’s disembodied voice seemed to come from far away, whilst the distant rush and gurgle of the River down yonder were as loud in the hobbit’s ears as if he were back sleeping in the boats.   
  
“Would you not have remembered the likes of me if you had seen me?” said Aragorn with a smile in his voice. “What you mean to ask is did I see you. I watched your borders from time to time, Samwise. It was not my business to spy upon your people. My attention was turned outward, not inward, though I had occasion to become acquainted with many of your Bounders, and Bilbo, of course.”  
  
”All those youthful indiscretions of yours are still kept secret then, Pippin,” mumbled Merry’s voice nearby.  
  
Aragorn moved again, and Sam could hear his heavy, long steps pacing behind his head. “They grew used to even my face in those parts,” he said, “and I should say I had my fill of good beer and good gossip, in equal measures, on many a night in the Northfarthing. I fear, however, than your name never came up, Master Brandybuck, nor Pippin’s, nor Sam’s.”  
  
Sam sniffed. “Just as well, I suppose. They’re a queer lot that way, and they charge twice for watered stock.”  
  
Aragorn chuckled. “Strong enough it is to loosen tongues after a few rounds, and that can be a very useful or dangerous thing. Though tongues did not wag on your behalf, the name of Baggins was ever raised in conversation far too often and too loudly for my liking there, and in Bree. Frodo’s notoriety was a source of anxiety to me long ere he came to realize the danger he had inherited.”   
  
“Never a proper, normal hobbit, that one,” said Merry. “Probably why we liked him so much.”  
  
The notorious Frodo Baggins himself shifted and moaned in his sleep and curled a little deeper into his blankets. Sam gave him a concerned glance. “I wish Mister Frodo’s name could have remained the business of the Shirefolk and never gone further than that,” he muttered.  
  
“We will return him to them, Sam, and give them such to tale as the good gossips of the Shire shall never tire of telling it,” said Aragorn. “Get some sleep. Evening will be upon us all too quickly.   
  
He paced back around Sam’s head, and he began to quietly hum. It was tuneless at first, but soon it took on a familiar melody, and Sam recognized Bilbo’s old walking song. The words sprang immediately into his head and the old hobbit’s voice with them; Sam buried his nose beneath the covers and closed his eyes, listening, and he thought about what Bilbo would say when they returned and told him of the roads they had followed and the strange places they found.   
  
 _When_  they returned, for it had not occurred to Sam that perhaps they might never. Not yet, anyway. Their road would get darker and much lonelier ere he let such a notion enter into his stout heart. He slept now peacefully with hope and the thought of home at the end of a long journey.  
  
And so they rested, even as the Sun rose up and heralded the day. The first rays of dawn spilled over the Eastern horizon and the muted orange glow poured slowly over the land, seeping into the shallow crags and valleys and drowning the dark shadows. The shine slowly filtered through the mist. Shimmering prisms of rainbow colours chased away the snake-vapours. The fog was burned off little by little as the warm light burrowed into it.   
  
The chill fled from the air, but the sunshine also stirred a sultry steam from the ground and the marshlands which surrounded them. The early air became muggy and stifling; those of the Company who had managed to fall to sleep right away were lulled into a stupor, their breathing growing lazier and deeper as they drew the difficult air into their lungs. Those who were still awake tossed and sweltered, and they gulped greedily at the breezes which chanced to reach them.  
  
Boromir had slept some little while ere he tossed and woke gasping from shallow dreams, parched and soaked with sweat. He swallowed, trying to rid himself of the thirst. He turned to lay on his back with his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and willed himself to go to sleep again, but he could feel his skin slowly suffocating, as if he were floating in a too-hot bath.   
  
At last he pushed himself up, cast aside his blankets, and irritably tugged his cloak over his shoulders. He sought out Aragorn, who was a dark figure sitting in the mist with his arms and legs crossed, pensively tapping his pipe against his knee. The Ranger lifted his head and looked questioningly at Boromir as he came near.  
  
Boromir crouched beside Aragorn and put a hand on his shoulder. “I need to walk for a moment,” said Boromir close to his ear. “I will be down by the water if I am needed.” He cleared his voice and winced. “I cannot sleep like this. I cannot catch my breath.”   
  
Aragorn nodded. “Take your sword. Be not alone and unarmed.”  
  
Boromir shrugged and wiped the sweat from his lip. “No doubt that is where Legolas has gone as well. We will be on our guard.” The Man straightened and took up his sword where it lay in its scabbard and he made off down their faint trodden path through the grass to the River.   
  
Aragorn watched him thoughtfully and was saddened by the weight that was lifted from him once Boromir had gone. The relief was considerable, as if it was an unwelcome stranger who had taken his leave. There was a stranger lurking behind Boromir’s eyes, and Aragorn found himself catching more glimpses of him when he looked at Denethor’s son.   
  
He relit his pipe and sat for a while, bone-tired and contemplating the days to come. A snap and an indistinct rustle behind him startled him. Aragorn shook the thickness from his mind and frowned at his lapse in vigilance; he had nearly nodded off. His ears picked up the sound of a light elvish curse. He smiled and sang out quietly:  
  
Nothing that is can pause or stay  
  
The moon will wax the moon will wane  
  
The mist and cloud will turn to rain  
  
The rain to mist and cloud again.*  
  
“I deem it a hazy morning indeed when even an Elf cannot see where he is going,” he finished.  
  
“I can see well enough,” came Legolas’s grudging reply. “I was simply not looking.”   
  
Aragorn turned his head to see the Elf step over a knoll through the mist. There was a look of reproach upon Legolas’s face, directed at the ground which had tripped him up.   
  
Aragorn hid his smile as the Elf’s pale eyes swept up to meet his. Legolas gave him a mocking bow. His shoes were tucked beneath one arm and his knife was at his belt. The Elf often returned from his small excursions bearing a rabbit or grouse or two, but the lack of a fire meant no call for fresh game, and there was no game to be had anyway in these desolate parts.   
  
“Did you run across anything of interest?” asked Aragorn.  
  
“Aside from a Ranger who thinks he can sing? Nothing to speak of,” said Legolas. He drew nigh and sat down lightly next to the Man. “The day is clearer further up the bank where the land slopes a little, and it is much warmer. The Sun is still seeking to find us here.”  
  
Aragorn grunted and looked at him meaningfully. “The Sun and naught else, I hope.”  
  
“There are no signs of life here, nor any I could discern upon the far shore,” said Legolas. “There are birds in the air, but they are few and far off. We are alone.” The Elf took in the sight of the sleeping forms of his companions, marking each of them, and then he frowned. “Where is Boromir?”  
  
“Hmm? Ah, gone to the River,” said Aragorn said after an absent pause. “He needed some space and freer air. He thought perhaps you had wandered that way as well.”   
  
Legolas stood back up and his eyes followed the trail that led to the water. “I shall go now,” he said, “if you do not intend to retire just yet, that is.”  
  
Aragorn shook his head and gestured at the thick air. “Go. It is a peculiarity bred of so many years in the wild that I cannot close my eyes in a place if I cannot first get a good look around at it.”  
  
Legolas regarded him with amusement. “I will return, then, my most peculiar friend, ere the air lifts and lets you see to sleep.” Legolas crept past the sleeping hobbits and knelt to hunt about in his pack. He found what he was searching for, and then he snatched up his bow and quiver and made off.  
  
“Tiro na lin teil!”* Aragorn tossed the words at the Elf. Legolas did not turn his head, but he raised an arm and flapped one shoe above his head dismissively ere he disappeared. Aragorn clamped the stem of his pipe in his teeth and grinned.  
  
He felt as if he could sleep for days. Strange exhaustion cottoned Aragorn’s mind; his eyes were heavy and there was a low hum in his ears. He blamed the steaming air, and he stood up to walk about and keep himself awake.   
  
\-----------------------  
  
Boromir squinted into the new light and he jounced the cold stone in his hand. He snapped his wrist and flung the rock out across the water, willing it to skip and skip, and skip again. The flat edge of it glanced off the glittering sunlit surface of the Anduin and nearly did it dance across to the other side ere it was engulfed by the current.   
  
He arched and rubbed his neck as his misused back and shoulders protested the activity. The chill night air had settled readily into his muscles as he rowed their small boat, the cold of it multiplying the strain of the task tenfold. He pointedly ignored the stiff tug between his shoulder blades and stooped to pick up another stone.   
  
This one skipped only twice, clumsily, and sank. Another curved upward and disappeared with a splash. He was more careful in selecting his next stone, choosing a large, narrow chip of rock the size of his palm. He tossed it lazily and watched with pleasure as it skimmed the water with little effort, taking up speed as it went, riding each wave until it skittering to a halt upon the far side of the shore with swifter skips than he could count. It occurred to him that his time would be better spent resting his tired body, but this game here in the sunshine was more to his liking than uneasy sleep.  
  
A sense of movement and a faint clacking noise from behind him drew his attention, and he looked over his shoulder to see Legolas padding bare of foot across the rocks towards the water's edge. The Elf’s arms were wrapped about his bow and arrows and his shoes dangled from one hand. Boromir watched him curiously for a moment until he concluded that the Elf was upon no urgent errand and was merely making for the River.   
  
Boromir hailed him as he drew nigh and Legolas returned his greeting. "Am I intruding?" asked the Elf.   
  
"Of course you are not,” said Boromir. He returned to his sport, snapping his wrist and casting off another stone. He grimacing as it careened off into the shallows.  
  
The Elf watched the stone fly and he nodded. "'Tis little enough time alone we find with companions so constantly near. I did not wish to disturb you, if solitude was your aim." Legolas chose a seat and settled, facing the sunrise.   
  
“A draught of free air was my aim, and thankfully I found it,” said Boromir. “I was smothering back there.” He turned his head a little, watching as Legolas laid aside his weapons and made himself comfortable. Boromir gestured dubiously towards the Elf’s bare feet. “The shallows here are muddy and not much for bathing.”   
  
“I am content to just sit, if I may,” replied Legolas. The Elf drew forth a small tin and loosened the lid; he scooped up a generous amount of the stuff inside with his fingers and began to knead it, warming it, softening it. “I wanted for company. The others are sleeping,” he said, “and Aragorn is overtired and unfit for conversation.”   
  
Boromir smiled. He scratched at the stubble which smudged his chin and he gave a stilted yawn. "I don’t know that I shall prove any more fit to talk to, but you are welcome to stay. The morning is dull. Strange, but I think that I have grown used to companionship,” he said, “what with my two shadows taking it upon themselves to ply me with hobbit-wisdom and asking their countless questions.”  
  
Legolas laughed. “I am no rival for their garrulous tongues.”  
  
“They should be so well-versed now upon the small doings of Gondor's army that they could be knighted, if their stature was not such that our livery would smother them ere aught could come of it," said Boromir.  
  
"Instant victory would be at hand with such as those two involved, if it came down to a quick battle or a missed meal,” remarked Legolas in turn. He stretched and drew his shoes into his lap. “But I do them an injustice; the young ones deserve better praise. They have a courage that belies their appearance." The Elf bent his head and began to work the pliant oil into the leather of one shoe using his fingers and the palm of his hand with a steady, practiced effort.  
  
Boromir nodded. "I did wonder once what it was Mithrandir saw in them that he should be so fascinated by them, but I think now perhaps that it is the very simplicity of their nature which invites interest,"  
  
"Knew you Mithrandir ere we set out from Imladris?" asked the Elf.  
  
"He came to Minas Tirith several times and I knew him, though not well. It was my younger brother who played the shadow then and followed him throughout the library of the city whenever the wizard visited. I took little notice of him, truth be told.”   
  
Boromir reached for another stone and glanced at Legolas, but the Elf was studiously distracted, bent to his task with his toes dug into the earth and he did not lift his eyes.   
  
The stone flew from Boromir's hand and leapt like a fish against the flow of the golden water. He hesitated to speak further, but there had been no lie in his assurances to the Elf that his company was welcome just then. Dawn seemed hardest for him and it was at the rising of the sun that he felt most keenly the longing for his home. Folly though it was, he often found himself listening each day for the far-off peal of the silver bells from the White Tower echoing from the heights at the morning’s first light.   
  
Perhaps the Elf knew this, perhaps he sensed this. Elves were supposed to be in tune with the harmony and nature of all things; Boromir thought surely his own bleak mood must pluck discordantly at his companion’s senses. Legolas could have chosen this spot purely for the sake of company, but Boromir was a practical man. He remembered the uncertainty in Legolas’s eyes when he had met him coming back from the River last morning. He knew that the Elf still harbored misgivings. Legolas hovered near because he did not trust him.   
  
“How many years have you over your brother?” asked Legolas.  
  
Boromir considered the question. He could see no mischief, no manipulation in the Elf’s words. Legolas was not deceitful, but he was inscrutable and even short conversations with him had a way of leading off in unexpected directions; Boromir hated being led.   
  
"I have five years over Faramir,” Boromir offered, a little more readily than he had intended. He wondered aghast if he was becoming more hobbitish after all. He yearned now for the company of Merry and Pippin and their ingenuous conversations. “Five years, though Faramir would tell you it seems the other way around. He was old, even as a child.”   
  
“Some see more with new eyes than others will perceive in a lifetime, though I know not whether they are happier for it,” said Legolas.   
  
“Faramir is rarely happy,” said Boromir. “Lay everything he ever wished for at his feet, and still he would pine. He has a melancholy humour. He is at his best when he is poring over some dusty tome or foxed scroll. Mithrandir encouraged that in him when he was but a lad, after our mother died and Faramir took more and more to solitude. He is a scholar of great deeds, though he has little interest in seeing his own name in the books. Father often chided him for his contemplative nature when we were both small, telling him he was more like an ….” Boromir paused suddenly and he glanced down at the Elf, “… like a sage than a warrior,” he finished.   
  
Legolas ignored the slip. “Are you close?” he asked.  
  
“Aye. He is a fine soldier,” said Boromir with pride and his eyes were warm. But then his face sobered. “It was Faramir’s horse I lost in crossing the Greyflood upon my journey to Imladris, and reluctant was I to bring back to him even such tidings as that.” Boromir sighed and passed a hand wearily over his face. “And now Mithrandir has fallen. He shall take the news of the old wizard's death hard to heart, I think."   
  
"Many shall," said Legolas softly. “But I should think your safe return will do much to appease Faramir’s sorrow.”   
  
Boromir stiffened his back and he gathered no more stones. He stood tall and straight and he stared out across the water. He made no answer.  
  
Legolas ceased the movement of his hands and he drew his eyes up slowly to look at Boromir. "Silent worries do oft consume the soul, if they are not imparted."  
  
Ah. There it was. Testing, wheedling elvish-persuasion. Boromir smiled to himself, pleased to have been expecting it. Indeed, this subtle sparring with Legolas was somewhat like speaking to Faramir, when his brother was in one of his moods. Faramir knew better, however, than to challenge him too far. Boromir slid on his expression of wise eldest son and said brusquely to Legolas, “Oft worries come to naught and shouldn’t be allowed to wrangle the heart in the first place, nor should they be encouraged by speaking them aloud." He lifted his head proudly, daring the Elf to prod further.   
  
But Legolas did not speak. And to Boromir’s irritation, neither did he withdraw, nor seem at all daunted. He sat there and watched him patiently as if he expected something more; he had the calm, uncanny look of a cat willing a choice morsel from a certain hand.   
  
Boromir shifted uneasily. He held the steadiness of that gaze for a respectably long time, but he felt his ears begin to burn under the Elf’s mild scrutiny and at last he surrendered and dropped his eyes to the ground. He berated himself for giving in; he thrust out his jaw folded his arms defensively. “Why do you look at me so?”   
  
“Because I see in you the strength your brother admires and in which your father takes such pride, and I worry for you,” answered Legolas.   
  
Boromir felt his chest constrict as the words took the wind from him. “The eyes of an Elf are rightly praised, then, for you see what even I cannot feel.” He cringed at the choked sound of his own voice and he pressed his lips together, wishing fervently now that he had never opened his mouth at all. He did not have to stay. He made to leave.  
  
“You bear a burden as great as Frodo’s,” Legolas observed quietly.  
  
Boromir halted in mid-stride and looked back at the Elf. He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”  
  
“It is unfair, what they expect of you, but still you strive against all odds to find a way to meet their expectations. Be careful of the choices you make, Boromir. You will break your heart or lose your life trying to be more than who you are for them, when who you are is enough.”  
  
Boromir’s lip curled and he turned away. “You cannot know,” he said. “Do not speak to me of death, child of the Firstborn. You will never stand upon the brink of such mortal oblivion.”   
  
“Go home to them,” Legolas bade him. “You bring hope with you, even if you yourself cannot see it.”  
  
Boromir inhaled deeply, and then let out the air with a burst of grave laughter. “How can I go home, Legolas, only to tell them that my absence, all my toil and time spent away has been for naught? I abandoned them and now I return and bring with me nothing to ease their worries, nothing to turn the tide of war. What would they say?” He moved another step, and then stopped and turned back. He looked to Legolas reluctantly. “What would they say?” he asked again. “I long to return and I dread to do so. I am not enough. I cannot save them.”  
  
“No, you cannot. Not alone. It does not mean they cannot be saved. What did you seek, Boromir, when you left them?”   
  
Boromir’s face grew dark as he recalled his conversation with Aragorn nights ago. “An answer to the riddles. ’Seek for the Sword that was Broken.’ I will not hear that he is their hope! But then I shouldn’t wonder that you should have faith in Aragorn and not in me; it is known where his life and his love lie, and it is not with the world of mankind!” he spat.  
  
“Such words are beneath you, son of Denethor.”  
  
Boromir knew it, but the feelings had been long in his heart and they gnawed at him. “Recrimination and reproach are all I am given, but never assuagement, never help,” he said. “I cannot trust to blind faith! Your people are fleeing this world, Legolas. My people cannot. Your people have failed to stop this tide of darkness, but we cannot afford to fail! There is nowhere left for us to run, even if we would.”  
  
“There is no place for any of us that is safe anymore, Boromir. It matters not what ties of kin or love bind us here, but here we are bound, for good or ill,” said Legolas.   
  
“Bound as one, fallen as one if the Dark Lord prevails.” Boromir gave the Elf a long look and he ventured quietly, “The Ring could be a gift to the foes of Mordor, Legolas. All Mordor’s foes. Your people would not have to leave. It offers us a chance to withstand the Shadow.”  
  
“No, it does not!” cried Legolas, and his calmness wavered. His eyes became frightened and they were filled with loathing, as if Boromir had casually suggested murder to him. He took a steadying breath and touched an absent hand to the fading wound on his cheek. “It does not. It invites the Shadow to come within. Give it no quarter in your mind, Boromir, I beg of you!”  
  
But Boromir did not seem to hear him. His voice was low, as if he sought to persuade the Elf, or himself. “It is but a thing, an object,” he said evenly. “They would destroy it upon the urgings of Rivendell’s lord, for whom this war is but a distant threat. It is folly to bear it unto the very Hand which seeks it.” Boromir’s face grew bitter. “But it seems reason was abandoned even ere we set upon this ill-fated quest.”   
  
“Reason?” echoed Legolas sternly. “Whose reason would you have us heed, Boromir? Elrond is better acquainted with Sauron’s treachery than I hope you ever shall be. Do not belittle his words or his wisdom. Your reasoning is that of a desperate man, and while your need sways my sympathy, I am quite aware that you would do anything to save your people, Boromir, perhaps at the expense of others. It is forgivable, but do not think that your fellows cannot see this in you.”  
  
Boromir strode forward until he was standing over the Elf, staring down at him with contempt. “I have heard it said, ‘ _Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes._ ’ If I held hope for such impartial comfort from you, son of Thranduil, I have abandoned it. I have heard the same empty words from our Ranger, and they meant as little to me then as they do coming from you now!”  
  
Legolas came to his feet, but slowly, not in anger. “I am far too near to the heart of this matter to offer you impartial platitudes, my friend,” he said. He stood very close before the Man and carefully held his eyes. “We both know of the conflict that is in you. I would be honest with you. Perhaps you have grown used to the ways of Elves greater than I. I am unable to look far down our road, but I will tell you what little I can see, and I will not colour the truth of it, nor disguise it from you, even if I thought you a lesser man who might believe it. You wish to have the Ring. You think you are not strong enough to save your people. You seek false strength from a thing of evil, thinking to turn it to good use. I tell you it cannot be done.”  
  
Boromir gave him a humourless smile. “If you have not the gift of foresight, how do you know?”  
  
Legolas said quietly, “I will not let it be done. I would stop you.”  
  
Boromir drew back. “You speak as a foe, not a friend!” he hissed.  
  
“You behave as a foe, not a friend,” warned Legolas. “Know that Frodo cannot give this thing up. It would drive him to madness or death to lose it, to have it taken from him! I will not let that happen.”  
  
“I would not take it from him!” cried Boromir. “I seek only his aid.”  
  
“And if he chooses not to go with you to Minas Tirith? It is not his path, Boromir, and you know that, I think.”   
  
Boromir turned away from Legolas and his thoughts were black. Desperation and anger fought within him, for he could not fault the Elf’s suspicion. The guilt of his desire was in his heart, but he spoke not reluctantly. “I cannot force him to go other than where he wishes to go.”  
  
“Aye, you could, Boromir,” said Legolas. “Would you?”  
  
Boromir thrust away the possibility, the thought of the deeds he knew he was capable of. “Nay, I would not! I swore to protect him. As all else fails and falls to ruin about me, my honor at least shall hold.”   
  
Legolas considered him for a long time. Boromir waited. He wondered if the Elf would call him a liar and turn his back upon him, return to Aragorn and the others and denounce him, shun him, shame him.   
  
Legolas touched his shoulder and Boromir lifted his head sharply, unsure of what to expect. But the Elf offered him his hand, and Boromir took it. As sudden and subtle as leaves stirred by a breeze, Legolas’s strange green eyes shifted from the promise of peril to vivid kindness.   
  
“Then hold to your honor,” the Elf said, “and divide your worries amongst your friends. You are my sword-brother, son of Denethor. If you do not cast yourself down, I will do all I can to aid you.” Keeping the Man’s hand, the Elf lifted his other to his heart in a gesture of fealty. “See clearly. Naught is as dark as it seems to you. Not yet.”   
  
Boromir let forth a ragged sigh. A bit of hope crept into him despite its long exile from his heart. It was tempting to him to believe in what the Elf said; there were no chiding whispers in his head urging him doubt it. He stood in the sunshine with Legolas, and whether he did see clearer or whether it was delusion, he felt better for it.   
  
“There!” laughed Legolas. “I have done you a favour. Be glad now for your hobbit companions and give your pity to Gimli, who must endure this Elf day in and day out without escape. You will think twice ere welcoming me to share a fair morning with you!”   
  
Boromir managed a smile. “It has been a fair morning. There may be few left for me, but this one at least I have had.” He was weary, drained by the sparring conversation, and sleep seemed a very good thing to him now. He thought of bed. “Thank you for your company. I think I will return, Legolas, and see about some rest. You will relieve Aragorn?” Boromir tried to let go of the Elf’s hand.   
  
He found he could not free himself. Legolas’s grip had tightened upon him. The Elf held him fast.   
  
“Legolas, what –“ he began angrily, but the Elf’s grip grew tighter still.   
  
Legolas did not heed him, did not seem to hear him. His nails dug into flesh and Boromir winced in pain. He twisted his wrist and stiffly slid his fingers away. He wrung his hand and took a wary step from him.   
  
The Elf did not move. He did not even lower his own hand; it remained held out, palm turned upward as if in supplication. His expression was distant and he stood rigid as a tree on a windless night.   
  
And then Boromir sensed it as well. A shadow settled on them. It seemed as if the daylight had grown dim, as if the Sun had recoiled and fled back down behind the hills. So strong was this feeling, so real, that he looked up to see if it was so.  
  
The Sun still shone in the sky above the horizon, but it felt wrong. Boromir held his breath and it seemed as if the world did the same.   
  
Utter stillness. His eyes were drawn hesitantly across the water and into the air.   
  
He could see nothing, hear nothing, but something was there. His mouth went dry. He felt a cold touch that made him shiver, like a trickle of icy water flowing into the warm pool of his heart. It was beyond mere stillness in the air now; a deathly silence was upon them.   
  
He forced his head to turn and was startled to find Legolas now standing with his bow bent, an arrow nocked to the string. For half a hateful moment, he thought… but no, Legolas was not looking at him. He was watching the sky over the water as well, and his hackles were raised.  
  
A thin, wailing cry was heard, so distant and so high that Boromir could hardly tell it from his screaming nerves. Recognition dawned in him at the sound, and panic with it. He tried to speak to Legolas, but his throat had closed up. Boromir could feel the Elf beside him take a breath, and then another, soft and light and tense.   
  
Legolas shifted his eyes, scanning the horizon. “Get to the others.  _Now_!”   
  
The Elf’s quick, terse words flicked like the lash of a whip. Boromir took back control of his senses and sprang away. He caught up his sword and fled, sliding heedlessly across the rocks and mud. The threat of that thin, stalking cry strummed up his spine and set his mind reeling. He hit the grass and flew towards their resting place, fighting the urge to shout out and warn their companions, knowing that an outcry would only cause confusion and maybe draw the danger swifter.  
  
The Enemy’s servants. The cold, black hatred of those faceless horsemen flooded Boromir’s mind and he remembered Osgiliath months past, and the screams of those Men who had been caught before the bridge. The day had become as dark as night. Dread was awakened in him, awful fear for his companions, and he ran faster.  
  
He came to a breathless halt in front of Aragorn, who was pacing idly a short distance from the others, staving off sleep with movement. Boromir thought perhaps that Aragorn had also sensed the threat and had meant to come and meet him, but strangely, Aragorn appeared startled to see him. He had not heard him coming, though Boromir had taken no pains to be silent. The Ranger saw the wildness of Boromir’s face, and then marked the bare sword clenched in his fist.   
  
“Riders!” barked Boromir ere Aragorn could ask. “The Riders are abroad!”   
  
Aragorn’s grey eyes steeled in alarm and his hand flew to the pommel of his own sword. He span on his heels and dashed back to the camp with Boromir close behind him.   
  
Their companions were as they had left them, sleeping undisturbed in the hollow, shrouded still in their cloaks. Naught was amiss.   
  
This was not true. Boromir’s eyes strayed out of habit to Frodo.   
  
The Ring-bearer was sitting bolt upright; his face was white, frozen by terror. His mouth was moving and he was gasping for air in silence, his distress gone unnoticed by those who slumbered on about him.  
  
Boromir took a step forward, but Aragorn was quicker. He touched Boromir’s arm to stay him and he circled around bodies of the sleeping companions.  
  
As the Ranger passed by Gimli, the Dwarf stirred to life and moaned. He lifted his head a bit and blinked his eyes in the hazy sunlight. “Aragorn? What is wrong?”   
  
“All is well, Gimli. Go back to sleep,” said Aragorn. His attention was upon Frodo. He stepped over the sprawled forms of Pippin and Merry to come behind the terrified hobbit. He knelt and placed a hand upon the hobbit’s back and Frodo caught his breath. Frodo looked up at him; his brow was damp with sweat and he was panting lightly as if from exertion.  
  
Frodo twisted his body about to face him. He rasped, “What was it?”  
  
Aragorn laid a light hand upon Frodo’s head. He looked to Boromir and then squinted in the direction of the River. “I do not know, Frodo. I did not see it.”  
  
“It is looking for us,” said the hobbit thickly.   
  
“It will not find us.”  
  
“It is looking. It will see me.”  
  
Aragorn leaned close and his voice was comforting. “It will not. You are safe.”   
  
“ _They bear swords of steel in their haggard hands_ ,” whispered Frodo.  
  
Aragorn noticed the hobbit’s hand inch up to touch his left shoulder and he began to rub it as if it pained him. The Ranger hesitated, very aware of the thing that was hung about the Halfling’s neck, much too close, but he reached forth nonetheless and covered Frodo’s small hand with his own.  
  
Boromir watched Aragorn reach for the hobbit, reach toward the Ring, and his face grew tight. He took an unthinking step forward, his eyes flashing dangerously. A sense of movement stopped him. Boromir noticed that Gimli was awake and watching him groggily. Boromir’s eyes shifted down to the ground, and then reluctantly back to Aragorn and Frodo. A flush mantled his face.   
  
Frodo drew in a slight breath and relaxed a little. He blinked rapidly and his hand slid from his shoulder to his side, and Aragorn let it go. The Ranger tugged Frodo’s grey cloak snugly about him and pulled the hood over his head. “We are safe here,” he murmured. He received a vague nod.   
  
Aragorn looked searchingly at Frodo, marking his confused, unfocused eyes, and then he smiled gently and passed his hand in front of the hobbit’s pale face. The last bit of fear and tension drained from Frodo and his head drooped wearily.   
  
“Lie back with Sam,” Aragorn bade him. “Get you to sleep. We shall keep careful watch.”  
  
Frodo did as he was told and curled up in a protective ball next to Sam, who was still fast asleep beside him with his face pressed into his pillow, unaware of his master’s turmoil. Aragorn stood away and watched Frodo for several long moments until he was certain it was safe to leave him.   
  
He returned to Boromir and his voice was low when he spoke. “He was still half in a dream, I think, and likely will not remember it when he wakes. Tell me what you saw.”  
  
Boromir shook his head slowly. “I saw nothing, but it was there. I cannot feel it anymore, but it was there, across the River.”  
  
Aragorn frowned and he looked doubtful. “I felt nothing.” He was quiet for a moment, considering, and then sudden worry touched his face. “Where is Legolas?” he said. “Was he with you?”  
  
Gimli had just withdrawn his interest from the commotion and gotten comfortable again, sweet exhaustion luring his eyes shut once more. The ruckus had been but a nightmare suffered by the hobbit; he silently wished Frodo better dreams and settled in to see about returning to his own. He caught only snatches of the hushed conversation between Boromir and Aragorn from where he lay; it seemed important, whatever it was, but he was tired and more than willing to obey Aragorn and question it all later.  
  
The Dwarf was slapped smartly awake by the sound of Legolas’s name and the tone of Aragorn’s voice as he spoke it. Gimli’s eyes opened and he sat up. He blinked and peered at the two Men. He saw Boromir shake his head and noticed the drawn sword in his hand. There was no Elf anywhere. Only Boromir and Aragorn, standing there uneasily with their weapons unsheathed. Gimli cast aside his blankets and got to his feet.   
  
“He is not far,” said Boromir, looking anxiously back down the path toward the River. “He was with me. We felt the cry and I ran to warn you. I thought him close behind me.”  
  
Gimli stalked over to the two of them and planted himself before Aragorn. “What has happened?”  
  
Aragorn looked over the Dwarf’s head and continued to speak to Boromir. “You saw nothing on the far shore?””  
  
“Nay,” replied Boromir. “It seemed distant, a call upon the wind, but I could not tell.”  
  
“Aragorn!” Gimli’s voice rose angrily. “What is wrong?”  
  
Aragorn spared him a glance. “Calm yourself, Gimli. There is no cause yet for worry.”  
  
Gimli bridled at the dismissal. “No cause for worry?” he growled. He cast his eyes from Aragorn’s tense face to Boromir’s drawn sword. “That much I can see. Where is Legolas?”  
  
“He was with me,” said Boromir. “He bade me get back to you with all haste and I did so.”  
  
Gimli rounded on him with such fury that Boromir took a step back. “Then why is he not with you? Where is he?”   
  
Boromir’s words stuck behind his teeth at the accusation in Gimli’s voice. He looked down with surprise at the Dwarf and saw condemnation plain in his eyes, for Gimli was frightened, and neither awake nor aware enough to mask his distrust.   
  
“I do not know,” said Boromir, startled, affronted. “I gave no thought….”  
  
“Clearly!” interrupted Gimli impatiently. “Was he armed? Where did you leave him?”  
  
“Enough!” said Aragorn. “There may be enemies close at hand, we do not know. Keep your head, Master Dwarf, and do not wake the hobbits. Your wits are still half-asleep. Legolas has not been gone long and he has his bow. Boromir has done nothing to warrant your anger. He and I will go look for him. Stay here with the others and raise the alarm if you see or feel anything amiss.”   
  
Gimli drew himself up. Despite the fact that he was shorter without his boots, he positively loomed over the two Men, and now they took heed of him. Gimli clenched his fist tightly at his side as if his axe was in his hand and he eyed them both.   
  
“Nay, I think not!” he said. “Even half-asleep, it seems my wits are a match for yours, and more than a match for his.” He motioned contemptuously to Boromir. “Will you send me back to bed and assure me that all is well? I would hear it from Legolas! You stay,” he snapped at Aragorn. “Boromir shall come with me and we will see to the Elf’s whereabouts.”  
  
Aragorn was taken aback. He looked searchingly at the Dwarf, but there was no madness in his eyes, only deep offense, and guilt. The latter Aragorn could not fathom, but Gimli gave the Ranger no time to think on it. He swung back and thrust his feet into his boots and lifted his axe from the ground. He hurled his cloak about his shoulders and stalked swiftly off in the direction of the River, leaving Boromir to catch him up.  
  
Boromir had not yet made up his mind to do so. He stood staring after the Dwarf, hurt and incensed by the Dwarf’s abrupt animosity towards him. He might have followed, might have protested, but he was not given the chance to do either, for Gimli did not make it far. There was a rush of movement and a sweep of grey and light, and suddenly Legolas was back among them.   
  
Gimli greeted the Elf, flushed with anger and relief. “Where have you been?”   
  
Legolas laid a mollifying hand upon the Dwarf’s shoulder, and then anxiously brushed past him. He stepped around the Men to look solicitously over the hobbits ere he turned back to speak to them. “We are being hunted,” he said quietly. “It was high and far and its voice was calling from the South and East. It passed swiftly and did not turn back or veer toward the River.”   
  
“Speak plainly! What is this threat?” demanded Gimli.   
  
“It was the same Dark presence we knew in Osgiliath,” answered Boromir. “I would swear it. The Black Riders.”  
  
“Sauron’s pawns,” said Gimli. “So the Nine survived the dousing Elrond gave them and return to make nuisances of themselves. But how can this be a horseman if it moved high and swiftly?”  
  
“It was in the air,” said Legolas, “far above us.”  
  
“A Black Rider in the air?” Gimli frowned. “Have they sprouted wings or tamed dragons? Smaug the Golden was the last of those beasts to plague these parts, lest Sauron has wrought more evil than we know in his lair.”  
  
“Do we move or do we stay?” demanded Boromir.  
  
They looked to Aragorn, but the Ranger had closed his eyes. He stood there long without speaking; so long that they grew concerned for him. “Aragorn?” Legolas summoned him tentatively. He stepped forward and touched him, bringing him around.  
  
“We stay,” said Aragorn, ignoring their anxious looks. “Naught has changed.”   
  
Boromir stared at him in disbelief. “Naught has changed? Saruman’s spies are troublesome, but these servants are not to be taken lightly, Aragorn. We are no match for them if they find us!”  
  
“I know these servants, Boromir, as well and better than you. This is not unexpected.” Aragorn recounted Legolas’s tale of riddles with Gollum by the water. Gimli listened with interest as well, picking up the pieces of the story the Elf had not yet shared with him. “I deemed it the raving of a small, wrung mind, but it seems that Sméagol has some insight into the evil which compels him,” finished Aragorn. “He warned Legolas of black wings, and this is what you both have described.”   
  
Boromir shifted his eyes from the Ranger to the Elf. “You thought this too unimportant to mention to the rest of us?”  
  
“I did not know what to make of it myself,” replied Aragorn, “and I thought it better to take precautions and wait and see. I bade Legolas to do the same.”  
  
“Indeed,” said Boromir. “You’ll excuse me if I do not appreciate your consideration, Aragorn, but I, at least, could have been given to know. Do you think that it would be better if we understood the danger of the Eastern shore, that thanks to the treachery of that slinking Gollum, the Enemy paces the River’s edge like a scenting dog, waiting for us to set foot there so that it may tear out our throats?”  
  
“I should think anything that would keep us from the Eastern shore would delight you,” muttered Gimli. Aragorn heard him and cast him a look of warning. The Dwarf shut his mouth and averted his eyes, but his face was dark with displeasure.  
  
“I do not think Smeágol will lead them to us,” protested Legolas.  
  
“Why did you not catch or kill it?” asked Boromir, turning his anger upon the Elf.  
  
A faint flush rose to Legolas’s cheeks. “I could not catch him,” he said. “I will not kill him.”  
  
“The creature seems remarkably adept at slipping through elvish fingers,” said Boromir. “I would have had my hands firmly around its neck given such an opportunity.”  
  
Gimli opened his mouth to retort, but Legolas silenced him with a look and a shake of his head.   
  
“Mercy is never weakness,” said Aragorn, “and a heartless hand is undeserving of praise. The Riders do not know where we are or they would be already upon us. Nor do they know where we are bound, and I do not think they will cross the water. We will remain where we are and continue on at dusk.” Aragorn drew the Elf’s attention to him. “Legolas, I would have you keep near the River. Have a care. I know not what evil is now abroad.”   
  
“I will, Aragorn.” The Elf obeyed and left them again.   
  
“Saruman’s spies were enough to contend with,” said Aragorn. “With luck, the dogs will fall upon one another in their thirst for our blood and we shall slip past.”  
  
Gimli threw him an arch look. “It seems all our advantages are those of fortune, Aragorn. May our luck hold.” The Dwarf turned to follow Legolas. “He should not be alone if danger is nigh,” he said over his shoulder. “I will be with him.”  
  
Aragorn grimaced and he sheathed his sword with a harsh thrust. He turned reluctantly to Boromir. “Take some rest, for I am weary and cannot last more than a few hours ere I shall have need of sleep myself.” He sighed and his voice became apologetic. He shook his head. “I did not intend to keep you in the dark, my friend.”  
  
Boromir nodded. “Aye, Aragorn.” He walked away from him and returned to his bed. “There is nothing but darkness,” he breathed, and he laid his body down.


	16. Sight

Every noise, every glint of light, every slip of cloud that formed and drifted and broke apart was suspect to the Elf who watched. He sat by the River wrapped in his cloak, his head tipped back. He felt suspended between the earth and the blue sky. He sent his sight soaring into the vast expanse above him, seeking movement until his eyes protested the strain. Circling black specks high up above were conjured by his dazzled vision but there was naught of substance to be seen.   
  
He heard Gimli’s footsteps behind him, slow and shortly measured over the ground, coming nearer, but he did not rise. He felt Gimli stand beside him, but he did not look at him. The Dwarf said nothing, though Legolas could feel his wroth radiating from him, hotter than the Sun that graced the sky above. The Dwarf was lashed to the very height of his temper and it was a towering rage indeed.  
  
“I am staying,” said Gimli, and that was all, and he sat down heavily next to the Elf with the air of one who had no intention of moving or being moved.  
  
“You should sleep,” Legolas ventured nevertheless. “You deserve some rest. You need it.”  
  
Gimli dismissed his words with a belligerent shake of his head. “Nay,” he said. “It seems each time I close my eyes it all becomes worse.”   
  
“Ah.” Legolas indulged the Dwarf and nodded solemnly. “Then it is you we must fault. Must we keep you awake indefinitely to ward all further harm from us?” He brought his eyes down from the sky to consider his companion. “I think not,” said Legolas. “Already you look as bristly and bad-tempered as a Beorning.”  
  
Gimli bared his teeth at the Elf and the resemblance was complete. “Still you prattle on and try my patience!” snapped the Dwarf. “I did not ask for talk! Leave it, Legolas. Let me just sit here with you.” It was both a plea and a warning. “I will wring their necks -- both of them -- if I go back. Never did I think there could be anyone so infuriating as to drive me to seek sanctuary in the company of an Elf, but those  _Men_ ….” He stopped himself and tightly closed his eyes. “I did not mean that,” he sighed. “I should not have said it.”  
  
“I think you may speak your mind to me or not as you please,” Legolas offered.   
  
“Speaking my mind has gotten me into quite enough trouble this morning, thank you.”  
  
Legolas heeded Gimli’s asperity and fell quiet. Coaxing an affronted Dwarf to speak when he was not of a mind to do so was a fair invitation to hostility, and his jaw still ached from their last confrontation. The Elf sat with him for a long time in silence, letting Gimli come to terms with his anger as he speculated upon its cause. A clash of words between Gimli and Boromir, he deemed, with Aragorn caught up in the fray. Legolas touched upon the implications and tried to arrange them in a hopeful manner. An hour passed them by, unnoticed, unmarked, and then another, and Legolas divided his attention between the reticent sky and the reticent Dwarf, patiently waiting for one or the other to turn.   
  
“I woke and saw him strange,” said Gimli at last, stirring the stillness and bringing Legolas around from his private musings. The Dwarf lifted his head and met the gaze of his companion’s distinctive eyes. “I saw him strange, and there was no trust in me,” he admitted.   
  
Legolas let out a soft breath, and he nodded. “Was he strange, or did you but think him so?” he asked.  
  
Gimli frowned and considered it. “He  _was_  strange,” he said. “I did not imagine it. He was watching Frodo with a possessiveness that would have set me between them, had I been awake enough to think on it. Aragorn did not see it. I would have let it lie, but then he had returned and you were missing --” Gimli looked askance at the Elf, as if he had said more than he had intended, and he muttered a bitter oath. “—and I am a fool,” he finished with a disgusted sigh.  
  
Legolas hid the wonder and dismay that came upon him at the slip of Gimli’s tongue. “Not a fool,” Legolas assured him. “Hasty, perhaps. Boromir’s mind is a rabbit warren of guilty notions. You merely jerked the snare in anticipation and set his thoughts scurrying back down their dark holes.”  
  
“Hasty….” scoffed Gimli. “Say irrational or dangerous and you would describe my behaviour more to the point, Master Elf, but then you were spared most of the ugliness of it.”  
  
 _Because I was not there. Because I was missing to you_. Legolas cringed, understanding now the unwitting part he had played in the strife that morning.   
  
“I haven’t the patience to coddle him,” continued Gimli. “Perhaps his notions will  _stay_  hidden with an ill-disposed Dwarf standing nigh.”  
  
“Or they shall burrow deeper and breed discord,” murmured Legolas.   
  
Gimli shook his head. “I did not like to leave him alone with the others -- with Frodo -- but I could not stay back there. I know the strangeness in Boromir is not his own and I feel wretched for casting accusations at him when he did not deserve them. This is… beyond me. I cannot feign trust. I will not.”   
  
 _It truly is beyond him_ , the Elf realized, and he regarded the bluff, stocky being who sat beside him with new admiration. Dwarves were an undeniably independent folk (Legolas might have once said self-serving), but they were not solitary. Clannish they were, gregarious. In the absence of his own kind for so long, Gimli had adopted his companions as kindred and Legolas imagined this division and disintegration of their loyalties unsettled the Dwarf more than any bloody battle could.  
  
“You have a straightforward heart, my friend,” said Legolas, “and I do not know if you can understand this, but I say to you that sometimes trust and faith are not the same.”  
  
“Believe the best of him, but do not turn your back on him,” said Gimli harshly. “Is that it, Elf?”  
  
Legolas felt the accusation and he paled a little. “I do not play false with Boromir, and I do not play false with you,” he said. “If I have given you any reason to doubt me, Gimli, have it out. I will right it, or leave. We can afford no misunderstandings between us.”  
  
Gimli flinched. “Nay, Legolas,” he whispered. “My words were hollow. Pay them no mind. I am not trying to chase you away.” He stared moodily at his hands. “I am frustrated this morning and tired. Bristly,” he jested soberly.  
  
“And hasty,” Legolas agreed.  
  
Gimli glanced at him and narrowed his eyes, but their depths had warmed a little. “Aye,” he growled. “Thank you! but for reasons most justified. Grant me some little time to shoo away this grudge, my friend.”  
  
The Dwarf’s stomach chose that moment to give a long, steady rumble, eliciting a smile from Legolas. The Elf raised an eyebrow. “It is a particularly vicious and vocal grudge,” he observed.   
  
Gimli shot Legolas a baleful look, daring him laugh. “You may add hunger to my tally of complaints today,” he said. “The sustenance of that waybread of your folk is overrated, or it is no match for a Dwarf’s consuming strength. It is pleasing enough for elvish fare, but some real food would be welcome.” He gave a hearty sigh and his eyes were far away. “Ah, for the feasts and fires of Erebor!”  
  
Legolas lifted his head. “I know that I should not admit to such a thing,” he said. “Not to you, I am sure, but… I am not altogether fond of lembas. Some venison and a taste of wine would be much more to my satisfaction just now.”  
  
Gimli looked down his nose at him, and then he snorted. “Just a taste? It is said the Elves of Mirkwood nurse their babes on the stuff. ‘Tis a wonder to me that you ever learned to shoot an arrow with what little accuracy you manage.”  
  
“’Tis a wonder to me you ever learned to distinguish the sharp end of your axe from the other, as much time as Dwarves spend dipping their beards into flagons of ale,” returned Legolas. The Elf was pleased to see the spirit rekindle in the Dwarf’s eyes and he traded discourteous smiles with him.   
  
Gimli’s stomach growled again. “For all this talk, now I am hungry,” he groused. “Shall we make a dash homeward for breakfast and be back ere evening comes on?”  
  
“I think our companions would have our necks if we came back to them reeking of ale and wine, sated and sluggish. Nay, I think perhaps it would be for the best if you sought out whatever stores our hobbits did not think necessary to unpack.”  
  
Gimli grunted regretfully, but at the further urgings of his empty belly, he wandered over to their overturned boats to forage. He returned with a makeshift breakfast of salted meat and waybread. He plunged into it with tired enthusiasm, sharing it with Legolas there upon the shore. Legolas was not particularly hungry but he accepted it as the peace-offering it was meant to be and enjoyed it, a simple meal on a warm morning.   
  
“I wonder where our small footpad has gone to,” Gimli mused as he chewed. “No doubt cozying up to some Orc troop, begging scraps in exchange for information on us.”  
  
Legolas balked at the suggestion. “I think not, Gimli. Boromir is wrong.” The Elf leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in thought. “What would Gollum fear more than anything?”  
  
Gimli crumbled apart a bit of lembas in his hands and he shrugged. “My axe, were he wise.”   
  
“A formidable fear, but nay. As long as the Ring is with us, he has hope. If the Dark Lord reclaims it, he has none. I would wager anything that he is still upon this side of the River.”  
  
“Perhaps,” said the Dwarf slowly. He took time to swallow his last bite of his breakfast and he sucked at his teeth. “I think it more likely that Gollum would seek the opportunity to bring us to peril to snatch the Ring from Frodo’s dead hand. Draw danger to us, and let others do the dirty work of slaughtering us ere collecting his prize.”  
  
“A great risk,” disagreed the Elf, shaking his head. “Too great.”  
  
“If I had anything of worth left to wager, I would take you up on that,” said Gimli. “I have only my axe and my pride. I cannot do without my axe, and there is not much remaining of my pride after this morning. Pray do not suggest now that Gollum is our ally, or I will send you back to Aragorn. You may try his overindulgent patience, for you have reached the end of mine.”  
  
Legolas brushed aside his words. “I meant only that evil may be drawn to the small creature, as evil seems drawn to Frodo, but he leads it to us not willingly.”   
  
“Either way, evil finds us,” shrugged Gimli. “Gollum is long gone. I wish with all my heart we were as well,” he mumbled. His eyes were grown heavy and it was apparent that exhaustion was catching him up.   
  
Legolas stretched lightly, then tucked his legs beneath him and tilted back his head to stare upward once more. Still there was nothing but straying hints of clouds marring the clear stretch of morning space. Sunlight danced there, but in Legolas’s heart there was foreboding. “Tell me, Gimli, were you there when the messenger came to Dáin?” he asked.  
  
Gimli folded his broad arms and settled back with a sigh. “The second occasion, aye. It had a foul voice, and worse was its laughter when Dáin tried to bargain with it,” he said. “The time has come and passed for the third visit the messenger promised and it pains me that I was not there to hear what was said. I should give much right now to be allowed a few moments to speak with Dáin or my father.” He looked up with some apprehension at the sky. “Have you felt aught of it since?”  
  
Legolas shuddered, recalling the elemental aversion that had come over him at the Rider’s passing. “Nay. I hope never to feel anything of it again.” His voice was tight. “I should have Frodo far and away from here immediately, were there any safe place to bring him.”  
  
“There is not,” Gimli told him. “We will no doubt know this Enemy, and worse, ere we see Frodo to the end of his road.” He eyes were fixed ahead of him morosely, as if he could see the end he spoke of. But then he swelled defiantly. “We have not come this far to shy away from some flapping, vulturous wraith! Let it come again. I shall pinion and pluck it and lay it at Frodo’s feet,” he boasted, though his words were thick with fatigue.   
  
“You will not have the strength to raise that axe or to put one foot before the other, Master Dwarf, if you do not get some rest,” Legolas told him with a laugh.  
  
“Your ceaseless chatter prevents my finding any peace,” said Gimli.  
  
The Elf made an indignant sound. “Was it not you who sought sanctuary here with me?”  
  
The Dwarf ignored the taunt, or did not hear it. His mind had wandered elsewhere. He propped his elbow on his knee and placed his chin in his hand. He gazed at Legolas vaguely for a long moment and then he nodded, as if coming to a decision.   
  
“You will go to Gondor,” said Gimli.   
  
It was not a request. Legolas gave the Dwarf a startled look. “Are you trying to rid yourself of me again?” He forced a smile. “If you tire of my company, you need only say it.”  
  
“You will go to Gondor,” said Gimli again firmly.   
  
Legolas regarded Gimli with consternation. “Nay, as a matter of fact, I will not,” he said. “Not if you mean by that, ‘ _Thranduil’s son will take the easier route whilst Glóin’s son walks into shadow_.’”  
  
“I hardly consider marching into war the ‘easier route’,” rumbled the Dwarf, “and we cannot both go with Frodo. It is too great a risk if the Ring’s power grows stronger. It is also likely that the division of the Company will be quick and possibly covert, if there isn’t an agreement. We will separate. You will go to Gondor with Boromir and the younger hobbits,” he stated in a manner that suggested the matter was settled.   
  
“Why not you?” demanded Legolas.  
  
“Boromir trusts me not, and I do not think he will endure my travelling with him any longer than he must,” said Gimli.   
  
”He has very little trust for any of us just now, and I certainly do not intend to let Boromir’s will dictate my actions,” replied Legolas. “Your pride received a few blows this morning, as did his. It is not an irreparable rift. Even if it should be, you are warriors, you are not children!”   
  
Gimli accepted the chastisement but did not surrender. “Which of us, Master Elf, do you think shall be more able to pass through the Black Lands unnoticed and unscathed?” he countered. “A Dwarf trudging about in his dusty armour beneath his cloak and helm, or an Elf who cannot help but look like an Elf from a mile away?”  
  
Legolas squared his shoulders proudly (looking very much like an Elf) and he said, “It shall come down to being seen not at all, Gimli, and at that, I am more adept than you.”   
  
Gimli straightened. “Foolishness!” he cried. “I have tolerated more indignities upon this journey already than I will ever admit to, and I will  _not_  be drawn into a game of hide-and-seek here with you to prove myself!”  
  
Legolas thought on that and he tumbled from his serious heights to mirthful laughter. He looked at Gimli with an irritated smile. “Go back, Master Dwarf, and retire, for you are in dire need of sleep.”  
  
Gimli chuckled himself, but insisted, “I mean what I say, Legolas. I question neither your courage nor your strength, Elf, but you do not belong in Mordor.”   
  
“None of us belongs in Mordor,” said Legolas. The Elf swallowed as if tasting the bitterness of the black name. “Frodo least of all, but we will do what we must.”  
  
Gimli nodded at that and relented. He sighed remorsefully. “I have made our plight worse,” he said. “I am sorry. After all of it, I acted without thought. I fear I have done much damage.”  
  
“You are hardest upon yourself,” the Elf told him softly. “It is done. Whatever comes of it, we shall find a way to go on. Much can change over the course of a few days.”  _For good or ill_ , Legolas thought to himself,  _and I dread to think upon the ill_. “We have made it this far. We shall choose our path when we must, if indeed the choice is given to us.”   
  
Gimli did not reply. Legolas glanced at him and discovered the Dwarf had fallen sturdily asleep, sitting there upright beside him on the rocky ground. His arms remained folded and his face was still stern and vaguely contentious, as if he carried on their conversation in his dreams. His chin was sunken down upon his breast and he had begun to snore softly into his beard.   
  
Legolas examined him curiously. He considered waking him to send him off to bed, but could not quite figure out how to do it without risking life or limb. Instead he carefully turned the edges of Gimli’s cloak to cover his shoulders and let him sleep. Legolas touched him lightly and Gimli took a deep breath. The Dwarf’s face relaxed, the lines smoothed away by forgetful rest.   
  
All at once, it was more than the Elf could bear. The fond smile which graced Legolas’s features fled. He felt sharp sorrow bury itself deep within him and he bled with helpless anger.   
  
“We are innocent,” whispered Legolas. “All of us.” He tore his eyes from Gimli’s face and he cast a challenging look at the air above them.   
  
There was nothing there but the clouds and the soaring Sun. Legolas sighed with resignation and settled in. He took up his vigil of the sky once more and waited for it to fall.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
 _Hungry hungry_.  
  
His empty stomach twisted and it made him irritable, vicious. Pickings were slim. He needed to be swift to follow them, and they had begun to sleep days and journey nights. He was glad they had the sense at least to take such care, but now he was left to forage beneath the mocking Yellow Face for what food he could find in that forsaken stretch of land. He did not dare go far from them, and he could not find proper rest in the daylight when there were few places to hide from it. The ragged, dead brush offered little in the way of shade or concealment. Gollum was resourceful; he had survived in lands far, far less hospitable. But he was at the mercy of their designs, ghosting along behind, moving when they did, stopping when they did. It came to be that there were no nests in the grasses, no small things hiding in holes, naught even to scoop up from beneath the stones in the murk of the River’s shallows.  
  
His growing desperation had made him careless. He had drawn too near to the boat of the Elf and the Dwarf in the night and they paid him for it, warding him away with a handful of scattered stones. Gollum took to the shore like a kicked cur, angry and hungry, and he had left them. It wrenched his mind to do so, to put any distance between himself and the Baggins for even a short while, but he knew they would not leave the River yet, not here, when there was no where else to go. He abandoned them, forging on ahead to find food.   
  
As the Sun dawned red and ruddy and the Fellowship camped in the mists, Gollum found his bounty. He was nowhere near their resting place; his hunger had taken him far downstream. He crawled ravenously from the water and up the bank, a slimy, black, murderous thing. He discovered that birds and animals were plentiful here again, away from the bare, bleak stretch of the Wold. Too tired to hunt properly, he sniffed out a nest of young mice beneath a copse of thorn bushes and gobbled them greedily, heedless of the scrapes and scratches he suffered getting to them.   
  
He was just beginning to feel fuller and better and thinking about looking for something bigger to satisfy him when he noticed the air had changed.   
  
He licked his lips and paused curiously.  
  
He felt the wraith’s scream, just beyond hearing. He stiffened as if stabbed by it, and he threw back his head to cry out in response. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His mouth opened but he gave no sound. He was afraid to be discovered, afraid to give the others away. He whimpered frantically, anticipating the loss, the dreadful, unimaginable loss of them and it and he scrabbled back and forth, witless and afraid.   
  
It had found them. It had caught them! There was no escaping such a hunter, so keen, so cold, so strong. He cursed and wept.  _He shouldn’t have left them, shouldn’t have left them, shouldn’t have left them behind!_  Better to have stayed and died, thin and starving, wasting away to nothing. Life was no mercy in the face of such despair.   
  
His panic receded. He stopped his writhing and moaning and lifted his face to the sky. He listened fearfully for the wraith, for the rhythmic sound of its wings flailing the air, or worse, for an answering call.  
  
But the voice had been far away and in the East, and there was only one; it drew no closer to the River and did not come North.   
  
The cold chill fled his limbs, left him limp and weary. The day was warm and still again. Whatever its business, it was not with them, not yet. The dread feeling faded and left his heart pounding as if it were struggling to free itself from his breast. He resisted the urge to flee back along the water to find them, to seek them out. They would come to him. He slept through the sunlit day buried beneath the brambles, twitching and snuffling fitfully.   
  
The sky turned gradually grey above him as clouds gathered and breezes were stirred.


	17. The Edge of the Knife

_Aragorn took each step slowly, heavily. There was no wind, though there should have been this high up. The air was dead and thick and it stopped up his ears with a lethargic hum. He lifted another foot and set it down, and found he had reached the top. He regarded the massive stone seat before him with diffidence, and then he turned and sat with his head high and his arms resting regally upon the carved armrest on each side.  
  
He gazed out, and the world was below him, so far down that it seemed a map spread before him, distant and silent and beautiful. The forests stood like deep green haze, bordered by boundless fields, and the River was a silver thread glinting in the light. The drone in his ears abated and he could hear now the roar of great falling water tumbling from precipice to pool. The rushing rose up around him, so near and so loud that he imagined he could feel the spray, though he had not moved, and the land below remained distant, unreal.   
  
And then the roaring subsided, and a new sound emerged. The dull murmur of voices, unintelligible, but known to him, familiar. He strained to hear them, leaned forward to hear, but though the voices grew louder, the words eluded him. And then they were crying out in fear and alarm, and Aragorn straightened and threw back his head in pain, pressing himself hard against the stone seat that held him. The voices called and shouted, lost somewhere below, and he knew them. The voices belonged to the seven who remained of his companions, and they were in peril.   
  
Aragorn tried to rise, tried to call back to them, but he could not lift himself from that place. He stared out at the peaceful land stretched out before his eyes and could do nothing. He had brought them here. They had followed him and he had led them to this. He felt the seven of them die, one by one. He saw their faces and whispered their names, and he wept as they fell.  
  
And as their voices stilled to silence, the air returned, dead and heavy, and the cursed hum filled his ears once more. He wrenched his arms from his sides and brought them up to cover his head and he stood, and then fell to his knees at the ground before the stone seat of Amon Hen. He lifted his face and stared out with lifeless grey eyes, and the deep-throated call of a horn blast echoed in his mind._   
  
\-----------------  
  
Boromir shook his head.  
  
It was unthinkable, really, but there it was. Boromir stared down and he wondered if it was some sort of ruse.   
  
Aragorn was lying on the ground in the sunlight with his head upon the crook of his arm. His eyes were closed. His breathing was even and deep. Boromir laughed uneasily as he looked upon him. Their impeccable Ranger had fallen asleep on watch.  
  
The hobbits had not stirred. It occurred to Boromir that perhaps Gimli or Legolas had returned to relieve Aragorn and keep guard. But there was no sign anyone else about, and if Aragorn had meant to fall asleep, surely he would have taken the time to settle back and do so properly. He lay there as if someone had simply pushed him over. His pipe had rolled from his lax, outstretched hand.  
  
Boromir was all at once amused and annoyed. What a dangerous thing to do! He leaned quietly forward to get a better look at Aragorn, to make certain he was not hurt or sick, but he did not appear to be ailing. He was merely sleeping.   
  
A bit of playful maliciousness tickled Boromir’s soul and he relished the thought of waking him. Aragorn would be mortified, no doubt, but rightly so. Boromir sympathized with his exhaustion, but to leave them unguarded like this could have been a fateful mistake. Not so serious a lapse with the Elf and Dwarf a close distance away, but a lapse just the same and unforgivable.   
  
However, when it came to it, Boromir could not bring himself to rouse him. It made little sense to do so now, after all, and seemed cruel. Aragorn would wake eventually and realize what he had done; Boromir decided he might as well enjoy his rest ere he paid for it.  
  
Boromir straightened and stood idle for a moment, and then he remembered the threat of the Rider. He shivered and looked around, feeling a chill despite the day’s warmth. He sought Frodo out and walked quietly toward him to check on him. He stared anxiously at the hobbit and was relieved to see that Frodo was peacefully asleep. His face was smoothed and gentled by slumber, half covered by the concealing Lórien cloak, his body curled unconsciously towards Samwise. Sam’s pack had been tipped over and now lay upon the ground by Frodo’s head, its contents threatening to spill out. Boromir knelt and righted it.   
  
Boromir remained kneeling beside Frodo. His hair shifted forward and fell around his face. He brushed it back. His nose itched violently and he rubbed at it with his hand, trying desperately not to sneeze and wake the hobbit. He suppressed it and his eyes blurred a little. He blinked them, and when they cleared, they focused upon one thing in very particular.  
  
He gazed down curiously at the small silver links of its chain trailing across the flesh of Frodo’s neck, cold against the soft, warm skin -- shining and tempting. The Ring was there, hidden, but the perfect circle-shape of it was discernible beneath the cotton folds of the Halfling’s shirt.  
  
“So small,” he whispered.  
  
He leaned forward and his hand slid over Frodo’s shoulder of its own volition, hovering, not touching. It crept towards his breast. A snatch and a sharp jerk of that delicate chain. Would it break so easily? It was of Elf-make, to be sure, but the links were tiny and could not be as strong as all that. Boromir stared with absent fascination at the insignificant clasp that held it fastening….  
  
… And then he saw his own fingers, twitching there in front of him, scant inches away from dishonour. He stifled a suprised cry and drew his hand away as if pulling it from hot flames. Frodo reacted to the movement and he stirred slightly, but did not wake.   
  
Boromir got hastily to his feet and stepped back. What had he been thinking? Nothing. He had been thinking nothing at all.  _He had only wanted to see it, to touch it_. Madness! Barking madness. But his guilt belied insanity. Madmen raved, raged, killed without remorse, abandoned by reason and unaware of its absence. Madness did not dwell in him, but  _weakness_  did. Boromir berated himself for his near surrender of self-control. He hurried back to his bed and cast himself down.   
  
“Boromir?”   
  
He flinched and his shoulders jerked at if he had been kicked in the small of the back. He did not reply. He was nerveless, numb, and he feigned sleep.   
  
“Boromir, what time is it?” The voice sounded unperturbed, languid, mild. It did not belong to Frodo, for which he was grateful. It belonged to Merry. Boromir willed him to go back to sleep.  
  
Merry groaned and stretched, and he sat up. He looked up at the Sun winking down at him, and then he peered about their camp. Merry answered his own question, as no one else seemed likely to do it for him.   
  
“Nearly midday,” Boromir heard him say. “Or midsleep, seeing how we’ve declared light and day irrelevant.” There was silence and then a shuffle and a sigh as Merry rose from his blankets. “Well, I suppose it beats a hobbit having to get up in the dead of dark to relieve himself.”  
  
Boromir felt the little one’s eyes pass over him as he walked near. Boromir waited and then chanced a discreet look. He watched Merry stop beside Aragorn, and then turn about with consternation. By his face, Merry was wary now, sensing that something was not quite right.  
  
“Legolas?” called Merry in a loud whisper, thinking to summon the Elf if he was nearby.   
  
 _Too far_ , Boromir thought.  _Too far away for even his ears to hear you, Master Brandybuck._  
  
Legolas did not appear, and Merry’s expression grew more serious. He glanced down again at Aragorn and he stooped next to him.   
  
“Strider?” He reached out to shake him.  
  
Aragorn came awake with a start. His eyes flickered open even as he thrust himself upward and grabbed Merry by the arm. “No!” gasped the Ranger, squeezing. “I must….” He stopped and sat staring about him. The sight of shock and disorientation upon his face was almost humorous, but neither Merry nor Boromir were of a mind to appreciate it.   
  
“Aragorn!” hissed Merry.   
  
Aragorn took in his voice and his face, and recognition brought his wits to bear. His face turned scarlet and then white, and let go of the hobbit. “Merry!” he rasped. “Where is Boromir?”   
  
Merry gave him a wary look and motioned toward the seeming-sleeping man across the way. Boromir made an effort to keep still.   
  
Aragorn frowned and dragged a hand through his hair, and his brow furrowed with confusion. “I am sorry, Merry. I suppose I fell asleep,” he admitted.   
  
“No harm done,” Merry said blandly, rubbing his bruised arm, “but you should have woken one of us. I could have taken the watch, or Pippin. He’s done little enough to weary himself these past days.” He paused uneasily. “Strider… Gimli and Legolas are gone.”   
  
“All is well with them, Merry. They left to keep an eye on the boats,” replied Aragorn, pinching the bridge of his nose. He winced and blinked at the sunlight.  
  
Merry lifted his eyebrows. “The morning was certainly a restless one for some of us. You might like to reconsider the idea of travelling by night.” Aragorn said nothing to that and Merry shrugged. “I am awake now and might as well be guarding. Go back to sleep, Strider,” said the hobbit solicitously.   
  
Aragorn nodded and crept to his bed.  
  
 _Our minds are overtaxed_ , Boromir thought as he watched the Ranger. He felt a little easier.  _Not madness, not some fell magic, just reason muddled by extremities_. Aragorn’s show of weakness was a vindication of his own. He rolled himself over, comfortably absolved, his mind drifting towards sleep. Ere he closed his eyes again, he fought back the faint regret that the knowledge of Aragorn’s lapse belonged only to Merry. It could have proven useful.


	18. All That Is Gold

The eastern wind moaned and whistled mournfully in the dusk, harbinger of an approaching storm. By nightfall, rolling clouds had moved in and obscured the modest slice of the Moon, allowing only the occasional tint of Tilion’s light to interrupt the rooky darkness. The air was ripe for rain, but not a drop fell to feed the Anduin’s flow. The Company prepared themselves for a deluge, but the clouds rolled on, seeking instead the vast, thirsty grasslands of Rohan. They suffered no more than the darkness and the lash of the wind as the storm passed over.   
  
Aragorn’s mood was as restless and turbulent as the weather that evening. He ushered them on their way with uncustomary haste, allowing them a meager bite to eat, a few shared words, and but a moment to collect their things. The Ranger was ill at ease. He paced about as they readied themselves, somberly studying each of their faces. He moved amongst them, clasping Legolas’s arm, touching Merry’s shoulder, speaking softly to Frodo, acknowledging each of them in some small way. He was back and forth, helping to heft baggage and shift blankets and stow belongings with a determination graver than grim. He ignored their curious faces.   
  
The hobbits in particular wondered at his behaviour and began to cast nervous glances over their shoulders at the deeper shadows, expecting danger. Frodo discreetly looked to Sting, but the sword did not flush blue.   
  
Gimli it was who finally spoke up. He announced his intention to wash up by the riverside and informed the Ranger, not unkindly, that he had a mother and didn’t require a hand to hold.   
  
Aragorn bore the laughter of the others with a smile and subsided; he withdrew and gave them some little room, but he watched over them that much closer.  
  
Boromir stood upon the shore, cloaked against the wind, contemplating the Ranger from the depths of his hood. He suspected that Aragorn’s watchfulness was guilty recompense for falling asleep during his turn at watch, but it seemed more than that. It was something Boromir could not quite determine, a perception of more imagination than substance, perhaps. Aragorn looked no different, really: a haggard man with an Elf’s heart, a lean wolf with a light in his eyes.   
  
 _Ah_! now. There it was. The Ranger’s keen grey eyes were furtive -- troubled. They were aged rather than ageless, and almost hurting. The Man’s world-worn aplomb seemed to have dissipated to mere weariness, and he looked more the old dog than the lean wolf. Boromir frowned and wondered now if he had been too swift earlier to deem the Ranger hale.  _Perhaps it is only bad dreams of black wings preying upon Aragorn’s mind_ , he thought. Denethor’s son was not one to quail before a foe, but he was vastly grateful for the storm clouds sweeping the sky and felt safer for them, whatever lurked beyond. Aragorn had disparaged the threat of the Nazgûl in the light of day; Boromir hoped the coming of night was inspiring proper fear in the Ranger against such an enemy. Night or day, the notion of one of the Nine drawing so near to them should have been enough to darken all of their dreams.   
  
Aragorn caught him staring. Boromir looked away, but not quickly enough. Aragorn approached him. “This storm will make the night unpleasant, but I would have us press forth nonetheless,” said the Ranger, squinting against the wind. “Can you manage?”  
  
“Aye,” said Boromir. “Merry and I can do this.”  
  
Merry heard his name and came to join them. The hobbit affirmed his willingness to travel on despite the weather. “Worse breezes than this whip up through the deeper tunnels of drafty old Brandy Hall!” he shouted cheerfully, even as he held onto the edges of his own hood to keep it from being torn off his head. “We’ll manage!”  
  
Despite his light words, Merry regarded Aragorn with sidelong complaisance. Aragorn did not notice, but Boromir did. Merry could see the change in Aragorn as well, Boromir realized; the hobbit apparently bore misgivings along with the bruises on his arm. Boromir did not like that. Aragorn was their guide and whatever differences existed between them, Boromir recognized his leadership. It pained him to see even that little lack of respect for Aragorn in Merry. Boromir felt an inexplicable desire to speak up on the Ranger’s behalf, but there was naught he could say. His private, recurrent wish had been to see Aragorn prove fallible, for this son of Kings to taste humility. Now that his wish had been granted he grieved, and the shame was his own.  _It is unfair, what we expect of him_ , he thought, and the words seemed familiar. He watched as Merry left to join Pippin, and he wished now instead that he had spared the hobbit the deed and been the one to wake Aragorn. Disgusted with himself, Boromir stood there, silently dwelling upon his own pantheon of heroes vanquished by disillusionment over the years.  
  
The Company gathered by the water’s edge. Aragorn spoke to them, his voice vying with the low cry of the wind. “The course of the Anduin runs straight ahead of us from here and shall soon begin to narrow,” he said. “The water will be deeper and faster, but that shall make it less an effort for us to break through this storm. Go with as much speed as you are able, but heed the other vessels and my lead. Do not separate!”  
  
“Your shield, Boromir.” Legolas approached him bearing the broad piece of armour. Boromir took it from him and thanked him. He glanced down at it. He could see the Elf reflected there despite the darkness; the slight, living glow of Legolas’s face and hands warmed the burnished metal. Boromir cast no reflection, only a shadow.  
  
“They need you.”  
  
Boromir looked up sharply. The sound of the soft-spoken words was lost on the wind, but he saw them upon the Elf’s fair lips. Legolas made a slight gesture and Boromir turned to see Merry and Pippin waiting upon him patiently, small sentinels standing on either side of their boat. Pippin held the Man’s sword for him, sheathed in its scabbard, and he was leaning on it against the sand; the weapon as high as he was. Boromir laughed inwardly at the sight. The sudden, simple rise of his spirits surprised him. Legolas traded a quick smile with him, but then winced as the wind surged around them. The Elf ducked away from it, his cloak swirling around him, and he hastened off to help Gimli nudge their vessel into the restless water.   
  
Boromir shouldered his shield and strode forth to join the young hobbits. He took his sword from Pippin and lifted him into the boat with easy strength. Merry hopped over the side, eager to be off, and Boromir shoved them on their way.  
  
Boromir did not look at Frodo, nor did his thoughts stray in his direction.   
  
There was a breathless sense of exhilaration as they moved on into the darkness with the presence of the rolling clouds above them. The wind was soon howling in their ears like a mad warg and they were forced to shout to be heard. They fought to keep from being washed onto the western shore as the Anduin pushed and pulled them, hurling them forward and then tugging them back. The sleek vessels of the Galadhrim were put to task as the Fellowship forged ahead, building up speed to counter the buffeting gales until they were skimming over the water, flying beneath the storm.  
  
Pippin’s eyes streamed as he clutched to the side of the boat, squinting out at the dark shoreline through his tears. He threw tense peeks from time to time at Merry in front of him, who was bent against the might of the elements with his hood drawn up and his oar in hand. There was no rain and still they were wet, soaked through by sloshing, wind-driven water. It was miserable and exciting all at once; Pippin’s teeth chattered from the cold and the thrill of it.   
  
A particularly vicious gust of wind scudded over the waves and whipped around them, forcing a yelp from Pippin. He scrambled back to avoid the slopping spray that hit Merry, and he came up hard against Boromir’s knees. He turned his head with some difficulty to look up at the Man. Boromir spared one of his hands long enough to grip the Halfling’s shoulder reassuringly and he said something which might have been “Do not be afraid!” but Pippin could not hear it for the wind in his ears. The hobbit buried his head in his arms and hunkered down as small as he could before Boromir’s broad form, keeping as near to him as possible without being in the way. He cursed the storm and all those daft enough to be out in it, himself included.   
  
It was a battle against the River and the wind for a steady hour ere the going eased. It remained dark and blustery, but gradually the wind subsided. The choppy water calmed. Beyond them the sky was lit with flickering jags of lightening. They slowed their pace a little and watched the storm at play over the plains in the West.  
  
Merry let out a whoosh of pent up air and he thumbed the water from his ears. He turned to grin at Pippin and shook his dripping hair. “Are you still with us?” he cried. “Poor Sam!” he chuckled. “He must be a quivering wreck by now.”  
  
“What about Sam!” shouted Pippin, his ears ringing now in the absence of the wind. He narrowed his eyes and held out his own shaking hands. “I would rather lose time than drown in the dark! Why did we not stop to wait it out?”   
  
“It was no more than a mild squall, Master Took,” said Boromir. He sat forward with his oar across his knees, resting. “Not enough to even slow us down.” He searched out his flask of water and tipped it back over his mouth, and then offered it to Merry. Boromir wiped his face with a sleeve that was only marginally drier. He grinned and reached out to flip the dangling hood of Pippin’s cloak over his head, muffling the hobbit in its sopping folds.   
  
Merry laughed and handed Boromir back his flask. “We will let you take over now, Pip,” he teased. He offered him the paddle. “Careful now you don’t knock yourself in.”   
  
Pippin dragged the hood off of his face and drew a deep breath, preparing to scold the two of them, but he choked instead. He began to hack, air and water and emotion mingling in his lungs. Boromir set his oar carefully aside and reached for him.   
  
“Steady!” exclaimed Boromir, drawing him near and gently pounding him upon the back. “You may be no more than ballast on this river trip, Master Peregrin, but we need you breathing. Are you all right?”  
  
Pippin spluttered and nodded. He buried his head in his arms. “Aye,” he rasped. “No thanks to any of you.”  
  
Boromir smiled and ruffled Pippin’s hair; the young hobbit shook his head and pushed the man’s arm away, recovered but reproachful.   
  
The other boats slowed up ahead, and Aragorn hailed them. “All good?” he shouted.  
  
Boromir held up an open hand, though it was too dark for any but the night-sighted members of the Fellowship to see. “All good!” he called back. “Pippin would like another go!”  
  
“As would Samwise!” replied Aragorn, and a rousing round of laughter came out of the night from the other two boats. Pippin responded impolitely beneath his breath and crawled back to his place behind Merry.   
  
Time fleets swiftly beneath day’s certain light, and often treads slowly through the shadows after nightfall, but it seemed they had hardly set off again when morning arrived. The storm that had kept them company throughout the night now rumbled far off in the distance, and the overcast sky began to grow lighter by shades of grey. The gales abated and ceased to moan, though sighing zephyrs still riffled the water and cooled the air. The River was narrower, as Aragorn had described, and the banks higher. They chose a small, sandy cove to halt and sheltered in the lee formed by their overturned boats. Again they chanced no fire, but the day was warm and comfortable enough once they were into dry clothing and out of the wind.   
  
For all the water-borne misery he complained of, Pippin had fallen asleep soundly in the boat sometime during the night to the rocking of the waves. Boromir lifted him out, bedraggled and exhausted, and brought him to the bedroll Merry spread for him on the ground. Pippin’s head lolled and he immediately began to snore.   
  
“Nuisance,” Merry whispered over him. “I do not know why I put up with him sometimes.”  
  
Boromir covered Pippin over and he looked at Merry sternly. “Because he is your brother, or as close as one to you. Look after him. He will always be there for you. It may come that someday you two will have no one to rely on but each other.”   
  
Surprised by the earnestness of the Man’s reply, Merry said nothing. He flushed and nodded.   
  
Boromir rose up. He laid a hand upon Merry’s head. “Let us find something to eat, Master Brandybuck. If we are quiet enough and do not wake this one, we just might get away with his share of breakfast.”  
  
Breakfast consisted of bread and cheese and dried fruit, sound enough fare, but hardly worth coveting. They ate to quiet their stomachs and then spread their damp things over the hulls of the boats to dry, hoping for a little sunlight to find its way through the clouds.  
  
Frodo took the first watch. He sat perched atop one of the overturned vessels above the heads of his sleeping companions amidst their laundry. He forgave the breeze that chapped his cheeks, for it was keeping him awake. His knees were drawn up tight to his chest and he traced the smooth wood with his toes as he considered the leaden water and the dull sky. His mind should have been filled with dire thoughts of the days ahead and the usual myriad of doubts and worries which belonged to him, but it was not.   
  
Frodo was busy. He was making a friend.  
  
A small bird, streaked grey and brown, nipped nimbly about the sand and rocks in search of food. It blended well with the buff landscape. The colourless thing would have been barely noticeable but for its bobbing black tail. Frodo had never seen its kind before. Several of the little birds were about when the Fellowship came ashore, but had fled when it became apparent the humans intended to occupy the place. Only this one remained, stubbornly refusing to give up this spot to the gawky intruders. It had kept its distance, watching as the Fellowship nested, and then sallied forth to pick about in the patches of wet sand stirred up by their feet.   
  
Frodo sat for some time watching it glean breakfast along the ground below his feet, nibbling insect delicacies and ruffling its feathers when the wind blew against it. Frodo had several dull hours ahead of him and a crust of bread too stale even for a hobbit to consider eating. He made use of both to try to coax the bird to come to him. He cast out bits of bread to it and made soft clucking sounds with his tongue in an attempt to win it over, but the bird was not so easily impressed. It paused now and then to nod its head at Frodo, humouring him politely, but ignored the bread and kept its distance.  
  
“Fussy thing,” said Frodo. He took to throwing larger chunks of bread and he varied his bird noises, but to no avail.   
  
“I realize it has been a trying few days for us all, but have you taken complete leave of your senses?”   
  
Frodo glanced over his shoulder and down into Pippin’s bleary eyes. The hobbit had been sleeping at the base of the boat where Boromir and Merry deposited him earlier. He was now turned half-about and looking up at Frodo with exasperation. “Are you roosting up there?” he asked.   
  
“What if I am?”   
  
Pippin flopped back and closed his eyes, one arm draped over his head. “Do it more quietly. I’ll take mine over-easy.”  
  
Frodo lobbed a piece of the bread at him.   
  
“Here now!” protested Pippin.   
  
Another piece followed the first, and another, and Pippin lifted his head. He gave a grudging groan and sat up. “All right!” He brushed off the crumbs and then clambered atop the boat to join him. “I should like to know who appointed me bait for everyone’s amusement on this little outing,” he grumbled. Pippin sat down and noted the bread-strewn ground. “A bird,” he observed tritely, spotting Frodo’s company, “and not a very impressive one. Certainly not a black creban thing, I should say, or anything of the like, if it is worrying you.”   
  
“Not all of the Enemy’s spies are so easy to discern,” Frodo reminded him, though it hadn’t really occurred to him to worry about the bird in that way at all.   
  
“Fair may look foul, foul may seem fair…,” Pippin recited carelessly. He dismissed the notion with a wave of a hand. “Thus far, foul has been foul enough, if not directly terrifying. May I go back to sleep now, or shall I run the villain off for you?” Pippin aimed a threatening look at the bird and stamped his foot on the boat, but the bird went on about its business, showing no more interest in a pair of hobbits than it had in one.  
  
“Don’t,” said Frodo. “I am glad to see it. I was beginning to wonder if we were the only living things left in the world. Perhaps we are nearing more civilized parts.”   
  
Pippin nodded, looking about them without much interest, and then he shivered as the wind ran up his back. “It would have been considerate of you to arrange for warmer mornings on this little outing of yours, my dear Frodo.” He rubbed his hands together and clapped them over his ears.   
  
“I will make certain of it next time,” promised Frodo.  
  
“Next time!” Pippin made a face. “’ _Finish what you have ere you reach for more_ ’, as my father used to say to me at the dinner table. If I recall, he also predicted I’d get in trouble tramping about with Bilbo’s addled nephew. He was a wise hobbit, my father.” Pippin nodded thoughtfully. “I should have probably listened to him more than I ever did.”  
  
“You do well enough getting into trouble all on your own,” retorted Frodo. “I’ve nothing to do with that. What a fine mood you are in this morning!”  
  
Pippin grinned apologetically. “I am feeling better, though no doubt it will come upon me again when you all insist on climbing back into those boats.” He took his hands from his ears and placed them in his lap.   
  
He was silent for a moment, and then he looked at Frodo. There was a seriousness in Pippin’s eyes that made Frodo take notice. The impulsive young hobbit revealed such a sober side of himself only on special occasions.   
  
“It hasn’t changed, you know,” said Pippin. “Any of it, really. I know I haven’t been of much good to you yet, but we set out with you, and we mean to stick by you, Merry and me. And Sam, of course.”  
  
“I know,” said Frodo quietly.  
  
Pippin shrugged, staring at his toes. “I thought you did, but, well, there it is again. It’s beginning to look maybe as if we hobbits are best suited to see you through it all.” He cast a quick look back over his shoulder.   
  
Frodo followed Pippin’s eyes to where Boromir lay sleeping a small distance away. He lowered his voice. “How has he been?”  
  
Pippin hesitated, and then said, “He is so like himself, sometimes, so like he was when we started all of this. And then… he withdraws again. There isn’t any help for it. Merry and I are looking out for him, Frodo, but I am afraid for him. For all of them.” He sighed. “Once we’ve thrown it into the fire, it will all be undone, and things will return to what they were before, won’t they?”   
  
“I do not know,” admitted Frodo. He reached for Pippin’s hand. “I know no more than you about any of this. I think maybe nothing will be the same. Perhaps it will be better!” added Frodo, anxious to comfort him. “But if we do not get rid of it, more people will suffer. I won’t let that happen.”  
  
Pippin nodded. “Good.” He looked at his cousin with appreciation. “You’re very brave, you know. I would have cast it aside a long time ago, Frodo, into a dark hole or deep lake for someone else to find. I know that sounds awful, but I would not have the strength to bear it.”   
  
Frodo shook his head. “I have no choice. You can’t call that brave, Pippin. I could not cast it aside if I tried to. All of you who are with me -- who have stayed with me in spite of the danger -- you are the ones with courage. I could not have made it this far without any of you.” Frodo affected a frown and a brusque tone. “Even you, Fool of a Took,” he said, and he stroked his chin in a gesture familiar of Gandalf.  
  
Pippin wrinkled his nose. “Yes, well, as long as I am appreciated,” he sniffed, and then his smile broke through. “You’re a terrible liar,” he laughed affectionately. He shoved Frodo, nearly toppling him from the boat. “If you think you can survive without me for a little while, I think I will go back to bed – you know, I’ve almost forgotten what a real bed feels like,” he said wistfully. “I miss home. And Bag-End. I spent more time there anyway than I ever did at home. I wonder how the Sackville-Bagginses are keeping up the place?”  
  
Frodo gave him a sour look. “If that is the best you can manage for cheery conversation, Peregrin Took, you may indeed go back to bed!”   
  
“O thank you!” Pippin excused himself brightly. “It is, so I will.” He patted Frodo on the back and twisted sideways to slip back down to the ground. “I’ll leave you to your….” He hesitated and a funny expression came over him. “Your bird is gone!”   
  
Frodo looked. His little erstwhile friend was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t heard it take to the air, but the bird was the sort that was fast on its feet. “I suppose it scooted off to find a quieter breakfast nook while we were talking,” shrugged Frodo.  
  
But Pippin was not so quick to dismiss it. He drew himself up and crouched there beside Frodo, still staring. “It was right there,” he said, pointing. And then he whispered, “Should we wake Strider?”   
  
“To tell him that we saw a bird?” asked Frodo incredulously. “You may wake him up if you like, but I won’t try to stop him if he tosses you headlong into the River for it.”   
  
Pippin did not laugh. “If not Strider, Merry then,” he insisted stubbornly.   
  
A little annoyed now and beginning to feel jumpy himself, Frodo said to him, “Even if it was Saruman himself sporting a set of feathers and spying us out, there is little we can do about it now.”  
  
Pippin set his jaw. “Something has put Strider on edge of late, and Legolas watches the sky as if he can’t help himself. I’ve been waiting for something out of the ordinary, but perhaps the ordinary is what we should be afraid of. I’m waking Merry.”  
  
Frodo thought he was overreacting and was about to tell him so when the bird reappeared, bobbing and strutting from the far side of a tangle of driftwood at the edge of the cove.   
  
Pippin caught sight of it as well and let go of the breath he had been holding. But he did not seem at all relieved. He gaped at the bird as if waiting for it to burst into the form of some large and fearsome beast.   
  
Frodo was looking at it more closely now as well, but there was no indication the animal was anything but what it seemed to be. He gave a dismissive snort.   
  
“There, see?” Frodo said. “Your wizard-bird didn’t vanish, you ass. Get some sleep before you have us both running about waving our swords, attacking invisible Orcs. I’m sorry I woke you. I’ll be quieter.”  
  
Pippin accepted the apology with an absent nod, still eyeing the bird suspiciously. He left Frodo and crawled into his blankets, though he tossed and fidgeted for some time.   
  
Frodo brushed the bread crumbs from his lap with a smile. Despite himself, however, his attention was drawn back to the funny little bird.   
  
It was still there. It bobbed its head at him and then darted off after a shiny green beetle that was winding its way through the rocks. Frodo settled with his chin upon his hands to watch the chase. The bird caught the bug and nipped it down, then immediately set out looking for more.   
  
“A spy would look fairer and feel fouler,” murmured Frodo, correctly recalled his own sage words inspired months ago by dark meetings at the Prancing Pony and too much drink.   
  
The object of his apprehension cocked one black eye and stared at him as if it had heard. And understood. Frodo frowned at it.   
  
“Drat the bird!” he said at last, his unease getting the better of him. He hopped down to pick up a rock and he hurled it. The bird flew off with a rustle of feathers and an indignant * _chiwee_ *. Frodo watched it disappear, and then returned crossly to his seat to spend the rest of his watch alone. 


	19. Slow to Evil

Legolas sang that evening. The Company awoke to the soft, beautiful timbre of his voice rather than the desolate whine of the wind. The sky away westward had cleared, and pools of faint light, yellow and pale green, opened under the grey shores of cloud. The air was still now and peaceful, and Legolas filled it with clear music.  
  
Even more pleasing to their senses, however, was the tantalizing smell of food that accompanied his song. Sam held the last watch in the fading hours of the afternoon, and the hobbit and the Elf had conspired to supper over a small, guarded cook-fire. Out of prudent necessity, it was hardly more than a flicker of flame; Sam hunkered over the hot coals like a miser over gold, pan in hand.   
  
“Fish!” declared Merry enthusiastically, stretching and breathing deeply. “Ah, blessed Samwise.”  
  
“Legolas did the catching,” said Sam. “I’m just after heating them up a bit. We thought if we started at it early enough, we could have a decent meal and not lose the time.”  
  
Legolas placed the last trout next to the hobbit, gutted and cleaned. “Even the waybread of the Elves, for all its virtue, becomes dull without respite,” he said. He laid aside his unstrung bow which seemed to double very well as a fishing pole in a pinch.  
  
They feasted as if famished. Even Aragorn settled long enough to eat his fill, and Sam gave him a little hot water to brew tea. But for all their urgings, Legolas would take no share of the food he had brought them. The Elf declined with a light shake of his head, uninterested, and made his way instead down to the River to bathe. He came back to them, sleek and full of secrets. He paced about, waiting upon them to finish.   
  
“Eat, Elf,” said Gimli with his mouth full. “At least sit down and give us peace to do so.”  
  
Legolas smiled. He walked up behind the Dwarf and nudged him sharply in the back with his foot. Ere Gimli could swallow and retort, the Elf bent close to Gimli and put a finger to his lips. “Listen,” he said.  
  
“Listen to what?” asked Gimli, but the Elf walked away. Gimli scowled and looked to Aragorn. “What is he talking about?” But Aragorn was not listening; he seemed lost in thought, picking at fish-bones, his tea untouched at his elbow. Gimli’s scowl deepened.  
  
”The frogs!” cried Frodo after a moment. He looked triumphantly at Legolas. “I can hear frogs!”  
  
Legolas laughed with delight. Gimli lifted his head and listened with interest to the faint croaking chorus which had escaped his notice. It was a common evening sound, but one they had not heard for several long days.   
  
Something caught Legolas’s eye; he slipped carefully between Aragorn and Sam and approached Boromir slowly, stealthily. Boromir looked up from his meal with a wary expression. Legolas crouched before him, his eyes intent. Then with a quick movement, the Elf snatched at the air just above Boromir, making him jump. Legolas swept over to Gimli in triumph and held forth his cupped hands. The Dwarf gave him a distasteful look and set aside his dish of food ere he reached out to touch the Elf’s wrist. Legolas spread his slender fingers and a moth flew up between the two of them, trailing fine, feathery dust. They looked up to see the moth join a small host of others flitting over their heads in the almost twilight.  
  
“We are leaving behind the barrenness of the Brown Lands,” said Aragorn. He reached for his cold tea. “Life is returning around us.”  
  
“Aye,” breathed Legolas. He closed his eyes and smiled with deep contentment. “I can feel it.”   
  
They could not help but be heartened by that and they finished their meal in good spirits. The trilling of the night birds joined the chorus of frogs and the air soon hummed with insects as their fire became a point of attractive light in the encroaching darkness. This was not such a joy for some; the rich, rare taste of Dwarf blood, freely accessible with Gimli still dressed in shirtsleeves, proved irresistible to the mosquitoes. Aragorn had no need to prod the Fellowship on their way again, for Gimli was soon scratching at his arms and neck and barking impatiently at them to get going while there was still something left of him.   
  
Legolas gave little heed to the Dwarf’s threats, though he bore the brunt of them; the mosquitoes added insult to injury and completely shunned the Elf’s own fair skin. Legolas became restless as the Sun sank low. He came to Aragorn as Gimli was putting an end to the fire that was a beacon to his tiny assailants. The Elf murmured something softly to the Ranger. Aragorn gave him a curious look, but nodded. Legolas left his bow but took his knife, and then turned and climbed up the bank and disappeared.   
  
Gimli left off smothering the last of the flames and he stared after the Elf. “What is it now?” he asked. “Where is he going?”  
  
“He did not say.” Aragorn fastened his cloak about his shoulders and knelt to help Frodo right their boat. Boromir and Merry were seeing to theirs as Pippin and Sam took care of the dishes. “He promised he would return to us ere we were ready to leave.”  
  
Gimli was not satisfied with that. He slapped at his neck and scratched, deciding whether or not to stalk off after the Elf and drag him back.   
  
Aragorn looked up and noted the Dwarf’s concern. “He has a mother,” said the Ranger with a faint smile, giving Gimli back his words from yestereve. “I do not think he needs a hand to hold.”  
  
Gimli threw him a hard glance.   
  
Aragorn’s smile vanished. Immediately he regretted his impulsive words, fearing he had broken more of the tender ties that remained between himself and the Dwarf. “I am sorry, Gimli,” he apologized. “I did not mean for that to sound so disparaging. I had no right to speak to you thus.”  
  
Gimli took his eyes reluctantly away from the direction Legolas had gone. He regarded Aragorn, crouched upon the ground with Frodo beside their boat. The Dwarf sighed a little, then folded his arms peremptorily across his chest. “Are you certain of that?”  
  
Aragorn looked up at him cautiously. “Am I certain of what?”  
  
Gimli’s brown eyes softened and betrayed him. “Are you certain Legolas has a mother?” he rumbled. “I cannot imagine anyone taking such a fancy to Thranduil.”   
  
Frodo gave up a small laugh beside them. Aragorn looked wryly at Gimli. “Aye, I am quite certain of it,” he said. “Well and worthy a lady.”   
  
Gimli grunted. “Well… of course Aragorn must not take sides with any of us,” he said, addressing Frodo. “Believe what you will, but I tell you Legolas is not what he pretends to be, Master Baggins! He is not a bothersome Elf, though he plays the part well. He is a Dwarf-bane, conjured up by Mirkwood’s king. I have long suspected that Legolas was sent along on this quest for the sole sake of irking me to death. And if he is not back here before long, we are going on without him.” He struck a mosquito on his forearm. “Fetch his belongings. There is no sense in leaving behind perfectly good supplies.”   
  
Frodo laughed and got to his feet. “No sense in it at all!” he agreed.   
  
“See that you bring me his bow as well,” Gimli said after him. “Kindling might become scarce.”  
  
Aragorn lent his strength to Gimli and they turned the baggage boat right side up and moved it towards the water. Pippin came to help Frodo and the two hobbits set about gathering Legolas’s few things together for him, as well as Gimli’s. The Ranger and the Dwarf were left together alone for a moment.   
  
Gimli brushed the sand from his hands and made an uncomfortable noise in his throat. “Aye,” he said, “minding after that bothersome Elf has made me irritable, Aragorn, but I hope you will not hold that against him.” This apology would have served, but Gimli offered a more direct one. “Forgive me for last morning,” he said. “Respect must be paid for in kind and I squandered what I had from you. I should have held my tongue and my temper. I have been more of a hindrance than a help to you.”   
  
Aragorn shook his head. The darkness beneath his eyes became suddenly more pronounced, as if a hand had passed over his face and drained away a week’s worth of sleep. He spoke carefully, mindful of their companions nearby. “If you would help me, Gimli, I would ask this of you: be blunt with me, as is your wont. Never fear to speak your mind to me, my friend, whether I would heed what you have to say or no. I could use a voice of reason.”  
  
Gimli looked at him curiously. “I am at your service, Aragorn, of course, though it seems to me between the two of us, reason runs deeper in you. Shall I be forced to admit that Dwarves often claim to be wiser than they really are?”  
  
“I do not seek wisdom, Gimli, though you have more than your share. I seek stout courage and common sense. Gandalf sought the same from you in Moria while he felt his way through the darkness.”  
  
Gimli furrowed his brow. “You are worried for us,” he suggested, stroking his beard. “That is understandable. Our path is uncertain and we are none of us brimming over with --”  
  
“It is more,” Aragorn interrupted quietly. “It is in my mind as well. I am aware of its presence and it grows stronger.”  
  
A helpless fear gripped the Dwarf’s heart as he comprehended. “No,” he said, almost to himself. And then he fixed his face in stony denial. “You cannot be touched by it.”   
  
“I wish it were so.”  
  
“Do not say it! You are mistaken. You cannot allow it to --” Gimli’s words fell away as Frodo returned to them and handed the Dwarf his pack. Gimli was silent, but he was unable to draw his eyes away from Aragorn.   
  
“Will we be leaving soon?” asked Frodo, standing awkwardly between them.   
  
Aragorn mastered himself and nodded, but Frodo noticed that something was wrong. The hobbit looked nervously from one to the other, marking their troubled faces. “Strider, I should like to know if we are in danger here.”   
  
“We have been in danger for so long, Master Baggins, you should be accustomed to it,” said Gimli, but he did not smile.  
  
“Nay, Frodo,” Aragorn lied to him. “Our danger is constant but not immediate. It is the end of our journey which has begun to weigh on my mind. Do not let it weigh upon yours.” He laid a hand upon the hobbit’s head, and then embraced him. “We shall leave as soon as Legolas returns.”  
  
Gimli looked on and was sick to his soul. There was determined compassion in Aragorn’s expression as he touched Frodo. There was stark loathing there as well for the gilded evil which hung from the Halfling’s neck. Gimli turned away. He swallowed his pity for Aragorn, for them all.   
  
 _Who will lead us now in this deadly dark?  
  
“I will. And Gimli shall walk with me_.”   
  
The Dwarf summoned up the old wizard’s voice, but the resolution it had carried was dead. “The darkness defeats us, Gandalf, and you are gone,” whispered Gimli. “The first of us fallen, but not the last.” He drew a hand across his eyes, fighting despair.   
  
The Dwarf hefted his pack, meaning to heave it into the boat. But then he noticed something odd. He lifted the pack in his hands for a closer look and he frowned.   
  
The metal clasp which had fastened the straps together was gone. Not broken off or torn away, just gone. The loose ends were cinched together instead by several tight knots of distinct yellow thread. Gimli plucked at the strands, perplexed.   
  
And then Pippin laid Legolas’s bow and quiver against the boat next to him. Gimli’s eyes narrowed as he shifted them from his vandalized pack to the archer’s arrows. “Motherless Dwarf-bane!” he cursed, his despair curdling to frustration. Almost he believed his own spun tales about the Elf. “Just to irk me!” He took no care to be gentle as he hurled Legolas’s things into their boat.   
  
\-----------------------------  
  
Legolas made a particular attempt to be conspicuous. He moved with casual haste, as if he were merely out for a quick evening stroll, unassuming, unaware. Insects whisked and buzzed through the air around him and small things rustled, some preparing to sleep, some waking for nocturnal pursuits. The Elf flicked his eyes in the direction of every movement. His sharp ears picked up the noises and sorted them, seeking the sound of a creature out of place. There were none. But he finally sensed what neither eyes nor ears could tell him. He felt watched as he walked, and he knew. It was growing darker and he had little time to spare, but he went on, seeking proof.   
  
Legolas slid down a slight embankment and stepped over the old wood and moss-covered stones which lay about half-buried in the sand. When the Anduin was high, the long depression was filled with stagnant water drawn off from the River’s main course. Just now the ground was mostly wet clay and cracked mud. There were dry patches and clumps of grass, and Legolas leapt lightly from spot to place to get across. He felt the eyes still watching him as he came back to check upon his offering left there earlier that day.  
  
Legolas had been awake when Sam rose to take the last watch upon the shank of the afternoon. Sam wore a long face as he stared at the River, anticipating the night’s journey. The Elf sat with him for a time, trying to assuage the hobbit’s worries about another possible storm-tossed boat trip, but to no avail. When all else failed to cheer him, Legolas resorted to the suggestion of food and left to see what he could find.   
  
What he found was a land which was fertile, if not quite thriving. There were animals about and birds in the brush, fresh nests and a foxhole, and dragonflies skimming over the grasses. Living things fed and burrowed and trilled and scurried here and there all around him. After days in the Brown Lands, this seemed a surfeit of life to Legolas and it went to his head like wine. His elation bore him a goodly distance from the River and he wandered further than he intended ere he remembered his errand and turned downstream to try his luck at fishing.   
  
It was upon his way back to his companions with his catch along a more direct route that he discovered the clay bed at the base of the shallow ravine.  
  
Legolas had sensed the creature there as soon as his feet touched the cracked ground; he felt the hunter’s instinct surge from his toes to the tips of his ears, but he did not react, did not pursue Sméagol or stop to show any interest at all in the place. He hastened instead back to camp with his catch.   
  
As Sam occupied himself with making a fire, Legolas tied the fish and settled them in the shallows of the cold water to keep. He filched two of the largest (depriving Pippin and Merry of thirds at supper), then crept back amongst the sleeping companions and appropriated something else, taking care not to wake the Dwarf, and carried it all back downstream.  
  
Legolas took pains to make certain his gift did not look like a trap. He deliberately pressed his footprints into the ground all about the place and left the two large trout there for Sméagol as obviously as he could, staking them out temptingly. Other animals could have found them and taken them, but other animals would not have shown much interest in the last thing the Elf left there.  
  
Legolas propped a bleached log of wood upright in the mud and drew out the silver clasp he had stolen from Gimli. It was an artful bit of metal despite its practical nature, wrought in a jagged, abstract shape of the Lonely Mountain. Legolas breathed upon it, polished it with his sleeve, and then fastened it to the log with a length of the strong yellow thread he commonly used for fletching. The silver swung there against the wood like a pendulum, shining bright and irresistibly peculiar.   
  
Legolas had stood back then and looked it all over with satisfaction. He hoped Gimli would forgive the theft. Sméagol might be hungry enough to accept food touched by an Elf, but Legolas doubted he would carry off any object that belonged to him and reeked so of elvish taint. If Gimli’s pipe was proof, reasoned Legolas, Sméagol had no such aversion toward Dwarves.   
  
His reasoning was sound. Legolas returned to find the log propped where he had left it, the thread still attached. The treasure had been taken along with the fish. The knot had not been broken, but untied by clever fingers that wanted the silver and not the string. The satisfaction that shone full-force from the Elf’s eyes seemed bright enough to scatter the settling gloom of evening. Sméagol had taken it, albeit with due suspicion; the little creature had not eluded capture for so long without some measure of wily intelligence. Legolas knelt and read the soft ground. He saw by the tracks that Sméagol had circled the offering ere he approached it, repeatedly drawing close to it and then jumping away. Sticks and stones lay strewn about where Sméagol had thrown them, as if attempting to spring an imagined snare.   
  
Legolas wound the bit of yellow string around his fingers and he laughed. Sméagol was accounted for. He was still here. The raise of the fine hairs on his neck and arms told the Elf that he was very near, in fact, and still watching. Legolas rose to his feet.   
  
“Black wings!” the Elf cried, spreading his arms. “I repay to you a debt, Master Sméagol! I know now what hunts us, and I hope that it still hunts blindly. Stay to this side of the River!” The last was as much a threat as it was a caution. “Good night!” cried Legolas, and he dashed away upstream to those who waited for him.  
  
\--------------------------------------  
  
Gimli did not kill the Elf when he returned, although the temptation was great even without the Ring’s prompting him to do it. As twilight settled and time was upon them to leave, Legolas came bounding from the brush and down the embankment to the boats and stopped before Gimli with a foolish, exuberant look upon his face. But when he met with the Dwarf’s flint-hard expression, his face fell.   
  
“What is wrong?” asked Legolas, abashed, his eyes searching.  
  
Gimli opened his mouth to tell him, but the others were nearby and listening as well, and his anger dissipated from him now that the Elf was there standing before him looking so worried. “Nothing,” he sighed heavily. “We have been waiting on you.”  
  
“Not long, surely,” said Legolas. He wondered if his small theft had upset the Dwarf so, but Gimli did not ask about the stolen clasp. The Dwarf was regarding the Elf with wistful disapproval, as one might a child making merry at a funeral. Ere Legolas could speak on it, Gimli’s eyes slid past him and the Elf turned to Aragorn.   
  
The Ranger’s long stride brought him nigh, the sand grinding beneath the heels of his boots. He bore the same look as Gimli. “We are ready if you are,” said the Ranger to the Elf. “Is everything well?”   
  
It did not seem so now to Legolas, and he deferred to their subdued manner. He stood before Aragorn and told him succinctly of his errand, holding the bright piece of string in his hand as testimony. The others drew nigh and listened as well to the Elf’s words, and reacted in various ways to the news that Gollum was still lurking nearby.   
  
“Better to know he’s about, I suppose, scheming on his own, rather than out stirring up trouble to meet us,” was Sam’s reply.  
  
“Gollum has been following us?” was Pippin’s, and he stared around as if expecting the creature to step forward and acknowledge himself. Sam poked him.   
  
“So that is the reason you’ve all been anxious these past days!” exclaimed Merry. “Why did you not say something?”   
  
Frodo looked warily at Aragorn. “Gollum has been following us since Moria,” he said. “Why should his presence worry us now? Has he tried anything?”  
  
“The creature has not had the opportunity,” Boromir interjected, “and will not, if we keep moving and do not tarry to play these games with it!”   
  
“Not a game,” said Legolas, but only Gimli heard him. “A test….”  
  
“I had hoped to lose him,” said Aragorn. “Apart from murder by night on his own account, he could put any enemy that is about on our track. If we can catch him, we might make some use of him.”  
  
“Of what use could Gollum be?” asked Boromir. “We should receive lies and deceit and worse, were we to capture it and try to drag it along with us. He has grown bolder! Legolas has been hunting the creature and has lured it close enough to see it and even to speak to it. It would be wise of us to rid ourselves of its menace now, while we have the opportunity.”  
  
Pippin shifted uncomfortably, “You have been that close to him, Legolas? Why didn’t you kill it? Surely you could have?”  
  
“I chose not to,” said Legolas quietly.   
  
“Perhaps the choice is not yours to make,” said Boromir. He shifted his eyes meaningfully from Legolas to Frodo.   
  
Frodo lifted his head, suddenly aware that he had become the center of their attention. “I do not understand,” he said.   
  
“Legolas could slay it for you, if you asked it of him, Frodo.” Boromir cast a look at the Elf that was almost apologetic. “Allow Legolas to kill the creature.”  
  
Frodo was taken aback. He stared at Boromir, aghast. His attention was riveted to the Man, else he should have seen the spasm of alarm which crossed over Aragorn’s face. Had he been as close as Gimli to the Elf, he would have felt Legolas catch his breath as well.  
  
“Now that isn’t fair!” Sam burst out angrily. “Hasn’t he enough on his shoulders without burdening him with this? Why don’t you kill the wretched thing if you must, and have done with it! Why all this fuss?”   
  
Legolas gave the barest nod. “I should have spoken of it to you, Frodo,” he admitted. “What Boromir says to you is true. I have become more familiar with the creature. I have been that close, and know that I could get near to him again.” He nodded again. “Near enough. What would you have me do?”  
  
Frodo felt their eyes upon him and he flushed, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. He shook his head dismissively, but then stopped to reconsider. He brought to mind the half-heard sound of padding feet in the echoing depths of Moria. He remembered the glimpses of pale, bulbous eyes staring back at him from the darkness. He imagined strangling fingers groping for his throat as he slept. He was tired of the fear, of having to look over his shoulder at every turn. He thought of the dull and ever-constant feeling of creeping danger waiting for him to let down his guard, to close his eyes for just a moment, to give up what belonged to him.   
  
It was his. It came to him.  
  
The Ring was his by  _right_ , to keep and protect it as he had promised, and he would do so. Gollum was a foul threat! A desperate jealousy rose in Frodo’s heart. The indecision which had played upon his features stilled to sullen hatred, and he brought up his hand to clasp the chain about his neck.   
  
Sam grew agitated as Frodo’s face contorted. “Here now—“ he began, but Aragorn stepped behind Sam and placed a hand upon his shoulder, stopping his words. Sam stared at his master anxiously.   
  
Gimli watched Legolas with as much concern. Legolas kept silent, head bowed, waiting impassively for Frodo to speak. But as Frodo touched the Ring, Gimli thought he saw the tall Elf sway just a little where he stood.   
  
Frodo brought his hand down to his side, clenched tightly into a fist. “No!” he said.  
  
Boromir looked at him in surprise and then frowned with disapproval. “The creature is dangerous, Frodo!” he persisted. “Gollum is capable of murder, of betrayal!”  
  
Frodo’s blue eyes darkened with struggling conviction. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I would ask you not to slay him, any of you, lest there is no other choice.” Frodo looked at Boromir, and then at each of their faces. “We have a choice now, and I forbid you to do it.” He gazed at Legolas. “Not unless you have to,” he said and the Elf nodded gratefully.  
  
“So be it!” said Boromir. “But it is only your safety I am thinking of, Frodo, and the safety of your companions.”   
  
“It was Bilbo’s mercy that saved him from the Ring’s corruption,” Frodo told him. “I would give my life to see it destroyed, but I will not kill to keep it! I will belong to it when that happens.” Frodo cast his hood over his face and strode off, one hand upon the hilt of Sting.  
  
Aragorn released Sam and let him go to his master. Aragorn stared thoughtfully after Frodo, a mixture of surprise and admiration on his face. “That is that,” he said. He drew a deep breath and let it out, and then nodded at the rest of them. “The Ring-bearer has made his decision, gentlemen. I suggest we take advantage of the dark hours and be off.”  
  
Gimli came to Legolas and stood before him. He took his arm and turned over his hand, pulling the string from his fingers. He dangled it before the Elf’s nose accusingly. Legolas’s eyes followed the string down into the Dwarf’s dark gaze.   
  
“Tender fools,” Gimli scolded him in a low voice. “Pointed ears and hearts as soft as your minds! Elves and Hobbits are degenerated from some same long forgotten ancestor. What would you have done if Frodo had decided otherwise?”  
  
“He did not.”  
  
“But if he had? Would you have slain the creature at his command?”  
  
“It would not have mattered,” said Legolas quietly. “If it had been in Frodo to will murder, the Ring would have been in the hands of the Enemy already, for all our toil and sacrifice.”  
  
Gimli blinked, and his face darkened as he considered the direness of the words. “Murder? You make too much of it,” he said, but he did not sound so certain. The Dwarf hesitated and then shook his head. “But it is as you say! Such a thing is not in him. Is that not why Frodo was chosen, after all?”  
  
“It is,” said Legolas with a pained expression, “but still I was afraid! Will you be so offhanded?”  
  
Gimli sighed. “Ah, Legolas.” He looked down and then pinched the length of yellow string between his thumbs and fingers and held it aloft. “A bridge of rope spanning the Silverlode,” he said. “The edge of the Lady’s knife. The uncertainty that I will live to see another day, or the day after that. I keep my eyes ahead of me and do not dwell upon the precariousness of the path I tread. If I stopped to consider it, I would not have the courage to go forward.” With a sharp tug, Gimli broke the string in two. He laid the pieces in Legolas’s palm and closed his fingers gently over them. “I fear you are beginning to understand mortality, friend Elf.”  
  
Legolas followed Gimli quietly to the shore. The others had set off already down the River’s path and had a lead upon them now. The Sun was low beyond the horizon. The Elf dragged their boat out to the current and helped the Dwarf in. Legolas chased deep thoughts as they paddled and he did not speak for a very long while.   
  
“I won, you know,” he said at last.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” said Gimli.  
  
“I won.” The Elf’s voice was as mild as the night air, the taunt rather meek. “You wagered what was left of your pride that Sméagol was gone and working some mischief upon the eastern shore,” he reminded the Dwarf.   
  
Gimli dipped and swept his oar, keeping a steady rhythm. “Were those my words? I suppose I might have said something of the kind.”  
  
“Well?” said Legolas, a little bolder. “How then shall you pay me what you owe?”   
  
Gimli stopped his paddling and shifted around. A knavish smile took over the Elf’s face as the Dwarf narrowed his eyes at him. “I was wrong and you were right,” said Gimli. “I believe my admitting  _that_  pays off the bet, if indeed I owe you anything, my fine thief! Must I now sleep with my own eyes open to safeguard my things? That clasp was a family treasure! It belonged to a fourth cousin I never cared for!” The Dwarf felt a good deal better for the laughter that brought from the Elf. “Make it up to me then!” demanded Gimli. “The hours shall go faster for some talk. Give me a story.”  
  
“What would you hear?” asked Legolas.  
  
Gimli paused to think on it. “I believe I should like one about the rookish son of a golden Elf-king. It is time you told me of your family. Aragorn has been spreading preposterous lies about you.”  
  
“Has he now!” laughed the Elf.   
  
And so Legolas regaled the Dwarf with intricate Elven lineages and Gimli recalled the names of his forefathers to him; grand accounts of ancestral deeds wound down eventually to childhood remembrances, and they shared it all with one another until they ran out of night and breath.   
  
As you might imagine, the separate lives of these two extraordinary companions would have been quite enough to fill several tomes, (even without the modest embellishments each made to impress the other.) But time is as swift as a flowing river and what would become of the Elf and Dwarf is of more importance than who they were ere shadow and war brought them together. More important, at least, to this tale.  
  
The bright dawn of the eighth day belied the dark treachery that came by nightfall. 


	20. Oaths and Bonds

The banks climbed steadily higher during the night. As the sky grew lighter, they could see that they were passing through a hilly rocky land, and on both shores there were steep slopes buried in deep brakes of thorn and sloe, tangled with brambles and creepers. Behind them stood low crumbling cliffs, and chimneys of grey weathered stone dark with ivy; and beyond these again there rose high ridges crowned with wind-writhen firs. They were drawing near to the grey hill-country of the Emyn Muil, the southern march of Wilderland.  
  
Aragorn approved of the change in the land and spoke to Frodo and Sam of better concealment and an end to their journey by water. But the hobbits gazed up doubtfully at the ragged ridges and cliffs that surrounded them, menacing and dark against the pale sky; they harboured too many secret shadows and obscure shapes to give them any peace of mind. The Anduin’s voice was mighty here and echoed strangely off the rock. The trammeled water was very strong and the steep stone slopes seemed to be squeezing in upon them from either side. Sam imagined being sluiced through tighter and tighter places until bits of what was left of their delicate boats (and the folk within them) came bobbing out the other end. Drowning had been Sam’s chief fear these past seven days; being pulped like a cider apple suddenly seemed to him a far worse and more likely fate.   
  
They slid ashore at a bend where the Anduin had washed through the brush to the base of a large cliff. The River had deposited a shoal of motley gravel and fine silt and spread it from the edge to form a beach on the western side. Great boulders of limestone were strewn about, tumbled from the heights to the ground and some as far out as the water. The current eddied about these obstructions, forming several small, deep pools which were clear as crystal down to the bottom. Across the way another cliff stood guard, promising good protection; its pale face was daubed thick with swallows’ nests and the air was filled with the birds’ cries as they chased one another above the bright running water in the early light.  
  
It was an altogether pleasing place to sojourn. The companions poked about, exploring it ere settling upon it as their home for the day. Gimli discovered a niche in the cliff behind them that widened far enough back into the rock to accommodate their beds and supplies. The floor within the half-cave was sandy and sheltered with room for the smallest of them to stand and the tallest of them to lie down comfortably. The remains of an old campfire were dug into the ground inside; layers of ash and small litter gave evidence that this was no secret place to some few ranging herdsmen from the nearby grasslands, but no one had been there for a very long time.  
  
They spread out their things and ate a little, then returned to wash in the water. Boromir stripped to the skin and ventured step by step out into one of the deeper pools until he was immersed to his waist. He poured handfuls of crisp water over his head and down his back, stoically shaking away the excess from his dark hair. He faced upstream, against the sweep of the current. The Anduin churned around the small pool in which the broad man stood, and it seemed as if the swift water changed course and yielded for him alone. Boromir dressed cleanly and smoothed his chin afterward as his routine dictated, looking more fit to stand ceremony than surrender to sleep upon the hard ground. Aragorn forwent a shave and took no more than a cat’s bath at the brim. His gaze rested downstream to where the Anduin hurried on, tireless and unremitting. The hobbits were braver than the Men, or more fastidious. They plunged full headlong into the water to  _get it over with the quicker_! as Merry put it, ere he tipped Pippin in and fell after him. Sam followed less recklessly. The cold shocked open their tired eyes and numbed their nerves until they could no longer feel the bite of it. The hobbits spent a good while splashing about in the pebbly shallows and came out shivering in the yet cool air of the morning. They were quick to scrounge for warm blankets and clothing, and they stood drip-drying on the shore, laughing and nibbling at morsels of breakfast they brought out incidentally with their dry things.   
  
Frodo did not join them. He sat by himself upon the furthest rock in the stream, dangling his toes and staring thoughtfully at the successive ripples he made in the water. The others took hope from the new day and their worries melted away in the sunshine, but the light did not seem to touch Frodo. The hobbits tried to coax him from his forlorn meditation, but he took no notice of them. He had not spoken much to anyone, not even to Sam, since last evening, and when he did speak, he was snappish and out of sorts. Their anxious looks only caused him to withdraw further, and so they let him be, trusting that a little rest and some food would make him right again.   
  
The Elf and Dwarf of the Company also chose to keep to themselves that morning, though they were in better spirits than the Ring-bearer. Gimli stood at a distance, propped against the steep stone cliff with his arms folded, yawning in the early light as he watched the others bathe. He was alone, but rather appreciated the fact. He had no mind to be keeping up with Legolas.   
  
While the rest of the Fellowship dallied by the water, the Elf took to climbing to the top of the cliff (for no particular reason that Gimli could tell -- other than Elves were notional creatures seldom prompted by reason). Legolas had begun sizing up the provocative heights as soon as he climbed out of their boat. The Elf fought valiantly to keep his feet on the ground long enough to see his companions settled and secure, but as soon as the time was his to spend, Legolas sought a higher perspective. He blithely ignored Gimli’s forecast of a broken neck and draped his cloak over the Dwarf’s shoulders for safekeeping. With casual strength, Legolas scrabbled up the crumbling rock-face, tugging at bare roots and clumps of grass to give him purchase, sending small avalanches sifting to the bottom.   
  
Gimli kept half an eye on the Elf as he went, not so much expecting the nimble fool to fall as anticipating things being dropped down on his head. Though it took him the better part of an hour, Legolas managed to find the top without mishap or mischief and Gimli was left by himself to enjoy a bit of peaceful seclusion down below.  
  
The Dwarf might have moved off to be with the others, but the rock felt solid and good against his back and he was comfortable where he was. He did not wish to intrude upon the hobbits -- the sight of them splashing in the water was enough to make his bones ache in proximity. Aragorn sat nearby with his eyes closed in drowse or contemplation as he listened to the hobbits’ mild merriment. There were many things Gimli wished to discuss with Aragorn, but not then. Boromir stood beside the Ranger, breathing the morning air and taking his ease. A frolic in the frigid stream with the Halflings held more appeal for Gimli than a conversation with Boromir. The son of Denethor had kept his distance from the Dwarf these past days and Gimli rather preferred it that way. There was forgiveness between them; neither of them had such narrow souls as could hate after so many months of close companionship, but their civility was tenuous. Too much alike they were, obstinate and direct, but while that had brought them to respect the other in the early days of the quest, now it stirred resentment. Boromir’s reserve, the confident bearing that Gimli had once admired now offended the Dwarf; he no longer believed in the outward honour of the Man and he made that clear to Boromir in small ways. They accepted safe estrangement for the sake of peace, for the sake of the Fellowship. The youngest hobbits still cleaved to Boromir, their loyalties given over to him as their protector. Gimli could not make up his mind to laud or fear this bond, though he was wise enough to hold his tongue when the tempation to speak out to Boromir became too great. He fell instead to muttering in Legolas’s patient ears when he and the Elf were alone.  
  
The sky warmed to a bright, splendid blue. If there was wind, it was confounded by the high cliff walls and could not reach them there. Water evaporated from skin and hair; eyes and limbs grew heavy and the novelty of their haven wore away. Frodo was the first to retire; he passed by Gimli looking small and grey and disappeared without a word into the recess in the cliff. Frodo did not bother with his bedroll. He wrapped himself up in a corner like a beggar and closed his eyes to exhaustion, his head pressed against the cool rock.   
  
Gimli waited awhile for the others to leave off their dawdling and settle in as well. Sam was next to come, and Boromir, and then Aragorn with Pippin and Merry. The sharing of cold rations and small talk went on inside their provisional den as Gimli stood outside, watching the sharp-winged swallows flit back and forth across the way.   
  
At last, when the rustlings of his companions died down and soft snores denoted slumber from most of them, the Dwarf pushed away and made quietly for the water himself. He found a comfortable spot at the edge of the stream and wadded up the Elf’s cloak to sit upon, folding his own neatly over a boulder. He lowered himself to the ground with a quiet groan and a slight creaking of joints. Ruthless river jaunts, fights and flights – he could not fault his body for creaking. He lingered and ran a hand through the pebbles beneath him, admiring the exotic variations. Smooth, wayworn. Some of them had travelled far to wash up there. The Dwarf felt a weary affinity. The air was a little warmer and the flowing water looked more bearable to him. Gimli knelt forward and drank from it, then splashed his face and his arms. He shrugged off his shirt and looked down with a grimace. He tightened his stomach and slowly began to peel away bandaging from clinging skin.   
  
“It bleeds still,” said a voice.   
  
The Dwarf turned his head sharply, but it was only Aragorn.   
  
The Ranger came to kneel beside him and he looked Gimli over with a healer’s scrupulous eye. Legolas’s knife had cut a long, thin swath through the dark hair upon the Dwarf’s torso from the right edge of his ribs to his left breast. The wound should have been well on its way to becoming another scar, but it had not closed and the cloth Gimli removed from it was stained pink.   
  
Gimli gave an indifferent grunt. “I am fine. It is a clean,” he said. “It is merely stiff. It reopens when I turn or strain my arms to use my oar.”  
  
Aragorn nodded. “Bathe it, and I will do what I can to help.”  
  
Gimli hesitated. He cast a significant glance at the top of the cliff behind them. “I would rather he did not see.”  
  
Aragorn followed his eyes, and then laid a hand upon the Dwarf’s shoulder and rose to fetch his supplies. “There is no way for him to come back down except the one he took getting up there. We will hear him. This shall not take long.”  
  
Aragorn brought back with him several clean strips of cloth and a greenish salve in a small bottle. Gimli sniffed at the latter speculatively, but he trusted Aragorn’s assurances that the wound would knit swifter for it and he smeared it on as he was told. He suffered Aragorn to bind it up for him again. He took the opportunity to study the Ranger, seeking signs of the Ring’s influence upon him.   
  
There was an intense care in Aragorn’s eyes as he centered upon his hands and the task they performed, a concentration of gentle power toward even such a small summoning of his skills. Gimli felt his body ease at his touch. Warmth spread from Aragorn’s fingers as if he worked magic, not medicine. The sting of the Dwarf’s wound faded, the ache in his muscles fled. Gimli’s eyes slid almost shut, but still he watched Aragorn. He could discern nothing wrong about the Ranger, no strangeness even this close to him, though there were shadows upon his face that spoke of sleepless days and restless cares.   
  
Gimli sighed a long sigh. “I thought you were stronger,” he rumbled quietly. “But then, not long ago, I would have told you I was strong and believed it. What way has it found into your heart?”   
  
“I am not so different from other men,” said Aragorn as he worked. “I have weaknesses, Gimli. I am more practiced at evading the traps and lies of the Enemy than most, but even the keenest blade is dulled by hard use. Dulled is how I feel,” he admitted. “I feel the Ring’s intrusion. Every thought in my mind, every instinct I have I must second-guess, and such hesitation could prove perilous to us now.”  
  
“Do you desire it? It is, after all, the weregild of your family, heir of Isildur.”  
  
Aragorn stilled his hands and looked up at him. The slight emphasis Gimli placed upon Isildur’s name did not go unheeded. “Perilous it is to demand honesty from a Dwarf,” the Ranger said. “It is very like receiving a blow to the head from the blunt end of his axe!” His eyes glinted with a hard light.   
  
Any other being would have quailed, but Gimli had had much experience of late withstanding the lean of intimidating eyes (green, not grey), and he held his ground. There was a heavy silence between them as they regarded one another. Then Aragorn surrendered and gave up a brief smile.   
  
“Forgive me,” he said. “Your question is a fair one, Gimli, though painful. If ignorance was my forebear’s misfortune, his legacy was prudence.” He reached up to touch the Elfstone at his throat. “I have no desire for the Ring, my friend. I desire something far greater.”  
  
But Gimli was unsparing. “The Ring is but a means to an end,” he countered sternly. “You could gain all you wish by it, Aragorn. You would not have to prove yourself worthy of your name, worthy of claiming her hand! With such power you could take what you want and none could deny you. Tell me that is not a temptation for you.”  
  
Aragorn finished tending the Dwarf and sat back on his haunches, his hands clasped before him. He nodded reluctantly. “So spake the Lady Galadriel to me,” he said, “though in Lórien our hearts were only opened to possibility, not truly tested. Here in the middle, between rest and deed upon this journey has our first trial come. But I swear to you, Glóin’s son, upon my life, that I am not tempted by the Ring. It can offer me nothing. I do not desire the heart of Arwen Undómiel, for it was gifted to me long ago and our love does not stand upon kingship or titles or the approval of her father, despite what others may believe.”   
  
Gimli eyed him warily. “That may be,” he allowed, “though I should not be flaunting such words before the Lord of Imladris, were I you. What is this greater desire of yours?”   
  
Aragorn hesitated, as if he wished to hold the answer to himself. When he spoke, his eyes and his voice seemed far away. “My desire is her happiness,” he said. “Nothing more. And yet I fear what I have done in loving her can never be requited. For her to share my life with me, she must sacrifice Elvenhome. I would have spared her the choice, spared her the grief of it, but it is done. Love is not merciful, Gimli. It does not set apart mortal from immortal hearts. She would remain in Middle-earth, and thus I must make Middle-earth a place of peace and surpassing beauty to rival the fair land she shall forfeit. I must free it from war and slaughter, free it from the Shadow that has plagued her people since the time when Sauron served a darker master. She deserves no less.” Aragorn closed his eyes. “That is it. That is my desire, Gimli. How can the Ring, a creation of the Shadow, pretend to offer such a thing to me?”  
  
Gimli was quiet, considering. And then he lowered his head with respect. “Well answered,” he said. “I played at judging your worth, Aragorn, and find now that I have not the means to measure it. It is beyond my reckoning. Regardless of their fondness for flourishing appellations, not lightly do the Elves call you Estel! You seek to fashion an earthly setting worthy of the Evenstar? ‘Tis a lofty ambition, my friend, though I admit I am much heartened to hear you speak of it. If anyone could accomplish such a thing, I must believe you will.” He frowned. “I had feared --”  
  
“You feared I was coveting visions of glory, a sword wet with the blood of my foes, a crown upon my head and the Ring upon my finger -- the same longing for conquest and renown that lives in Boromir.” The Dwarf’s dark expression was confirmation and Aragorn said, “Nay, Gimli. I am not for such distinction. I have grown accustomed to hiding this face of mine in the shadows. The hobbits call me Strider and I embrace the name, for I know the man who bears it has done much that is honourable and good, and he can take pride in that, though it is not a proud name. I am rather fond of Strider.” He smiled wistfully. “Elessar… he is a stranger to me yet, but Strider is a very old friend and I do not like to leave him behind. ‘ _All that is gold does not glitter_ ,’” he said.  
  
Gimli furrowed his brow. “You have that wrong,” he said. “The common saying among my people is ‘ _all that glitters is not gold_.’ And I would counsel you to remember that when dealing with Boromir. He conceals much from you.”   
  
”I have worn many guises, been given many names and titles,” said Aragorn. “One title has ever been beyond Boromir’s reach, though he has born the heavy obligations of a king’s son all his life. Boromir was raised by stern measures. His pride is considerable. Can you think he would not harbour some resentment for me, the heir to the throne upon which his father sits? Can you think it so easy for him to dismiss a weapon powerful enough to destroy Gondor’s foes when he was sent forth to beg for what little help he could find? He is conflicted and afraid for his people, and the Ring stalks his mind. If you sense guilt in him, Gimli, know that it is not the guilt of an evil man, but the guilt of a good man driven to contend with evil thoughts. He will not fall to them. I know this. When our journey is over and all deeds are measured, he will have done what is right.”  
  
“ _Right_  can be easily skewed by a willing mind!” said Gimli, “or a desperate one. He does not fear the Ring and that makes me fearful, Aragorn. I had hoped Legolas and I might have served you all by our shameful example, but Boromir is a fool!” he declared angrily. “He is a child who must thrust his own hand into the fire and be burned by it ere he appreciates the danger.”  
  
“You are dwarf-kind,” said Aragorn, “and Legolas is elf-kind. I fear Boromir marks that distinction from himself more than he should.”   
  
“Humility will come to him,” pronounced Gimli. “Too late, perhaps.” He shook his head and the anger in his eyes became sadness. “I wish for him no pain.” His voice was suddenly thick, his face haggard. “A good man he is, Aragorn. But nothing is evil in the beginning.” Irritated by the care he betrayed, Gimli stood and drew his shirt back over his head. He stroked his beard into place and said brusquely, “You have not yet told me what hold the Ring has upon you, Aragorn. If it cannot entice you, how then are you bothered by it?”  
  
The weight settled once again upon the Ranger’s shoulders. “It mocks me,” he answered bitterly. “I have little hope of defeating the Shadow when I am unable to keep it even from my own mind. For the past two days it has whispered to me incessantly of failure and doubt. It tempts me not with visions of glory, but torments me with visions of death. I cannot close my eyes for the dreams it gives me.”  
  
“It taunts you with your own demise?”  
  
“Nay. Rather… yours.”  
  
“Mine!” Gimli looked at him with surprise.   
  
“And theirs.” Aragorn’s gaze strayed in the direction where the others slept. “Each of you. I hear your cries but I am helpless to come to your aid. It is more grief than I can stand and it does not fade upon waking. I mourn your death even as I sit next to you for this, here – now -- seems less real to me.”  
  
Gimli scowled. “That should unsettle my dreams, not yours,” he replied. “I would like to know just where and when I am to meet my timely end so that I may have my axe ready and a few parting shots prepared for the Elf. It is naught but pretentious deceit, Aragorn, you must know that.”   
  
“I do,” said Aragorn. “But a man who dreads a fate fortold may turn aside to avoid it, only to find it lying in wait for him. I have dreamed of Amon Hen as the place of our despair. It is where I should have led you, but now I fear to do so.”  
  
“It seems to me if the Ring wards you away from Amon Hen, then Amon Hen is where we must go!” said Gimli stoutly. He hesitated. “Amon Hen… I gather from its name that this hill would be a good vantage point?”   
  
“It is said that one can see the world from the Seat that is carved upon its summit,” said Aragorn. “I would look from it and discern what I may ere we must choose our path.”  
  
“The east-way or the west way,” mused Gimli.   
  
“Or home,” said Aragorn. “Aye, that choice is still yours, Gimli, and Legolas’s. Your journey back to forest and mountain would be perilous now, but you would be together.”  
  
Gimli shook his head firmly. “We will not do that, Aragorn. Legolas and I have discussed it. We can serve our people best by serving the Ring-bearer. We shall go on with you, wherever ‘on’ may lead us.”  
  
“Wherever indeed,” sighed Aragorn. “Often have I wished of late that Gandalf had been more forthcoming with his intentions. Tell me, Gimli, did he say nothing to you when you were close to him in Moria? Did he give you no hint at all of the road he meant for us to take beyond?”  
  
“He spoke of naught but our journey through the Mines,” said Gimli with deep disappointment, “and never of what we should do after that. I am sorry.”   
  
A spasm of grief passed over Aragorn’s face. “The West calls to my heart and the East holds no promise, and now I cannot be certain that my judgment is unaffected. We are plunging into darkness as deep and dangerous as Khazad-dûm, and we have neither Gandalf’s light nor wisdom to guide us. I lead you blindly, and thus would you follow me to a bitter end, I fear.”  
  
“To be fair!” protested Gimli, “we are not striplings tripping nervously at your heels. Do not let yourself be overwhelmed. East or West, the decision shall lie at last with the Company, not you alone, nor are you bound up to go with Frodo should he take the darker path. If I must, I will walk with Frodo myself to the very brink of the fire to see him fulfill his responsibility, for I have little enough to risk compared to some. But we shall watch out for one another, Aragorn. You are not alone. You have done your share to safeguard your companions from that fiddling bit of gold. Do not be ashamed now to fall back upon us. I daresay that is why Elrond chose a Fellowship for this task.”  
  
“Elrond sought to counter the Nine with nine,” said Aragorn. “We are eight now, besieged by One.”  
  
“It is a crafty foe, but it shall be hard pressed to break our circle!” declared Gimli  
  
“Mr Frodo?”  
  
Caught up in their conversation, Aragorn and Gimli did not hear the voice at first. It called again a little louder and they left off to look around.   
  
There stood Sam behind them blinking in the sunlight, his face covered with worry. And there was Frodo, plodding along at the base of the cliff with his hood over his head and his arms folded, nearly invisible against the grey rock.   
  
Aragorn came to his feet. “Where are you going, Frodo?” he asked gently.   
  
Frodo did not answer. He took a few wandering steps, and then he staggered and fell painfully to his knees.   
  
Sam gave a cry and ran toward him. Frodo was groping for something he had dropped on the ground. It was a small thing that glittered very brightly amongst the stones.   
  
Sam recoiled.   
  
Frodo recovered the Ring and he held it in his palm.   
  
He traced the smoothness of it with a delicate finger, crooning words they could not hear. As he petted it, the air grew heavy and a loathsome throb seemed to emanate from the Ring like a slow, lurching heartbeat. It swelled out until their own hearts matched its pervasive rhythm. Frodo gave up a strange laugh. He sat down on the ground and brushed his hood away, then held the Ring aloft and squinted through it at the sky. He sang lightly:   
  
 _An eye in a blue face  
  
Saw an eye in a green face,  
  
‘That eye is like to this eye’  
  
Said the first eye,  
  
‘But in low place,  
  
Not in high place.’_  
  
Frodo’s smile changed, became rueful, resigned. He lowered the Ring into his lap.   
  
‘ _An eye of red fire  
  
Was in a place that is higher.’_  
  
“No,” said Aragorn firmly. “Let it alone, Frodo.”  
  
"I must leave,” whispered Frodo.  
  
“Where would you go?”  
  
“Away.” The hobbit’s eyes were vague, lost. “I cannot stay here.”   
  
“Let it alone,” Aragorn said again. “Put it back on its chain.”   
  
Frodo stared at the Ring. He touched it again, and his finger lingered at the hollow of its center. The throbbing in the air grew stronger. They watched him and were afraid. Aragorn and Gimli tensed. Sam took a step forward, preparing to leap for his master.   
  
But Frodo obeyed Aragorn and brought out the fine silver chain from his pocket. With trembling hands, he slipped it through and fastened it about his neck, and he settled it carefully beneath his shirt.   
  
The throbbing stopped. The air lifted and the brisk voice of the River climbed once more into their ears. Frodo gave a tired sigh and lifted his head. Sam was immediately beside him on the ground, clutching at his arm in relief.  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Frodo. “I was bringing it to –“ He licked his lips and concentrated. “Isn’t that odd?” he murmured. “I… can’t seem to remember.”   
  
“No harm done,” Sam assured him, “and naught to be sorry for.” He helped Frodo to get up and brushed him off. “You were overtired and your feet wandered off with you. A few more long nights and  _lembas_  dinners and we’ll all be sleepin’ awake like Elves.”  
  
Frodo nodded dully. “I am tired, Sam,” he agreed. He winced and bent to rub his knee where he had fallen, aware now of the pain. But then a curious expression came over him. He straightened quickly and raised his face, squinting up into the sunlight as if he were searching for something.  
  
“What is it?” asked Sam cautiously, following his gaze.   
  
A violent shiver ran through Frodo’s body, and suddenly Sam was bracing himself to keep them both standing. Frodo’s eyes went as wide and blue as the sky above them. “Gandalf?” he whispered. Then he pushed away from Sam with a wild, breathless cry.   
  
“ _Gandalf_!”   
  
Such conviction was in the Ring-bearer’s voice that the others looked up as well. But the sky was empty, as they knew it had to be. There was naught to be seen. They bowed their heads, overcome by pity and sorrow. They grieved anew for Gandalf, and for the hobbit who missed the old wizard most.   
  
Sam carefully took his master’s hand. “Mr Frodo, no,” he said softly. “Gandalf is not here. You were dreaming.”  
  
“Take him back, Sam,” said Aragorn. “See that he gets some rest.”  
  
Sam nodded sadly and then he looked up at the Ranger. “You won’t be far, Strider?”   
  
Aragorn shook his head. “I will be here, Sam. Call me if there is need.”  
  
Sam grasped Frodo’s arm and began to lead him away. Frodo held back, but subsided when Sam pleaded with him to come. He went, though he continued to gaze back over his shoulder at the sky.  
  
Gimli came to stand beside Aragorn. He was quiet until the Halflings were gone, then he raged in a low voice, “This is not right! Why must he be the one to make such a sacrifice? Madness take us all! Though darkness came of it, I would fall to my knees before Sauron and offer him up the Ring if it meant Frodo could be returned to his Shire not knowing the anguish, the grief he carries with him in his eyes!”  
  
“I would have chosen differently for him as well,” said Aragorn. “And yet he goes on, Gimli. He has made it so far against such odds. Strange circumstances have played to his advantage. There has always been a way for him, though not the way we would have chosen for him, or the easiest way. Our path has never been our own. We have come this far by fate -- or luck, as you would have it.”  
  
Gimli shook his head. “If you think so, then you worry for naught,” he said. “Frodo has had a greater guide than you or Gandalf all along.”  
  
Aragorn was thoughtful for a long moment, and then he nodded as if he had made a decision. “Stay with me awhile, Gimli,” he said. “Give me your company until Legolas leaves off wandering the cliff-tops, and then go and catch some sleep. Legolas shall not want any and I will find none myself. We will need your strength. We make for Amon Hen, as far as the Great River can take us. Though I cannot see through the darkness that fills my find, it seems right to me.”  
  
“And to me,” agreed the Dwarf. “I do not fear what awaits us there!”  
  
“I do fear it,” said Aragorn, “but I accept that what will be must be for Frodo to find his way.” He looked at the Dwarf. “Thank you.”  
  
“For what little service I could offer, you are welcome.” Gimli bowed. He lifted his eyes to see Legolas standing at the top of the cliff. The Dwarf eased a little, his face became less dark. “The wanderer has returned,” he said. “We should consider leashing him.”   
  
Aragorn beckoned and the Elf came down, climbing half the distance and dropping lightly to the ground.  
  
Gimli retrieved his own neatly folded cloak and put it on, then scooped up the Elf’s from its heap in the sand. He shook it out ineffectually and met Legolas as he approached.  
  
“The air is warm and so still,” reported Legolas. “I could have let a feather fall and watched it land at your feet. The Sun is glorious. Would you like me to carry you up, Gimli, so that you might see her?”  
  
“Aye, and would she laugh to see me dangle you from the high edge by your heels?” retorted Gimli.  
  
Legolas made a face at him. “Ascend at least as far as a smile, then, disagreeable Dwarf.”  
  
Gimli complied. He smiled generously as he presented the Elf’s smirched cloak to him, and then he took his leave.   
  
All day Aragorn and Legolas remained awake and let the others sleep through the hours. Few words passed between them, for they were watchful and listening. Legolas kept to the edge of the water, sometimes standing, mostly walking, never still. Aragorn sat in the cooler shadows, shifting as the Sun changed in the sky, striking a pipe when the mood took him. They were conscious of every wisp of cloud, every bird call, for Aragorn suspected that the tug upon Frodo’s mind had been the Ring’s response to something dark and interested. But morning passed them by, and the afternoon apace. The swallows sailed the air and sunlight glinted upon the water ; there was no trace of danger. The day was warm and peaceful.   
  
Legolas paced capriciously along the shoreline, shifting his bow from hand to hand. His senses were cast out as far as they could reach and his face reflected the abstract serenity of their sheltered place. He swept past Aragorn -- too close-- and disrupted the smoke that had accumulated above the Ranger’s head. The Elf caught a taste of it and sneezed. He passed the back of his hand over his eyes. “ _Pfah_! You are on fire,” he informed Aragorn, breaking their silence. “A good friend would throw you into the water to save you.”  
  
“A good friend would have to be quicker than an Elf to succeed,” replied Aragorn, and he blew another stream into the air.   
  
Legolas snorted and jumped up onto one of the boulders that jutted from the water, partly to escape the smoke and mostly to proclaim his superiority over the Man on the ground. The gesture was spoilt as one of the swallows took offense and swooped at the Elf’s head, forcing him to duck. Legolas gathered his dignity and drew himself up, daring another to be so bold.   
  
Aragorn regarded the Elf as he stood there with his head cocked reprovingly at the birds. Legolas had washed and smoothed his grey cloak after Gimli’s misuse of it and it hung from his shoulders and down his slender back like long, folded wings. Aragorn’s eyes shifted thoughtfully beyond Legolas to the clusters of nests clinging to the cliff across the way. He smiled. “Aiya bar-in-tuilinn, e-mbar Tuilindo”*, he observed.  
  
Legolas spun around and pounced upon the jest. “Ah!” He pointed an accusing finger at Aragorn. “You  _were_  encouraging the Dwarf! You could have given my lineage to him rightly instead of filling his head with whatever tall tales you did tell!”  
  
Aragorn stretched and laughed from his place in the shade. “I told him nothing! Your kind and his have been inventing untruths about one another ere my race existed. Fault me not for Gimli’s imagination. I take it you set him aright?”  
  
“Aye, I did that,” said Legolas. “We spoke long about many things during the night. It took some effort to convince him that I was not molded of clay and leaves upon conception. It took more effort still to make him believe that my sire does not heap his wine cellars with the bones of neglected Dwarven prisoners.” The Elf’s eyes shone with amusement. “But Gimli gave freely as much as he took. I will not tell you of my own woeful misbeliefs that were remedied.” He shook his head. “For all we have seen and done together, still he is strange to me,” confessed Legolas, “as are his ways. But then… strange also do you seem to me at times, and Boromir, and our young hobbits.” He hesitated. “I hold you all dear, nonetheless,” he added in a softer voice.   
  
“And strange is the Elf to his companions, and as dear to them,” said Aragorn carefully, sensing a sobering of Legolas’s manner. “All of them, whether or not the Dwarf would admit to it.”   
  
Legolas nodded. “Thank you. But his patience toward me is a matter of honour,” he said, “a fulfillment of an oath, nothing more. Necessity allies us.”  
  
Aragorn frowned. “You would chide me for telling tales and then hand me such a lie? Or do you believe this?” With difficulty the Ranger again forced down the memory of his dream of Amon Hen. He denied Gimli’s failing shouts, Legolas’s last suffering cry. He concentrated upon the Elf who was very much alive there before him in the warm sunshine. “Come,” Aragorn bade him. “Sit for a moment and speak with me. If any enemy has a mind to disrupt our rest this day, he is in no hurry to do so.”   
  
Legolas stepped down from the boulder and settled beside him, oblivious now of Aragorn’s clinging pipe smoke. “He is strange,” he said again. “The beauty of a remote mountain wreathed in mist and light dispels into a reality of harsh peaks and plain stone as one draws near it. It is not so with him. I once thought him rough hewn, but as the distance closes between us, my admiration increases for his bravery, for the capacity of his soul. Rich veins run through him, sprung from a bright source: his fiery heart and a deeper mystery. I am fascinated by that,” he admitted, “and I am humbled by him.” Legolas swallowed a little and fell quiet. He looked at Aragorn and flushed as he realized how far his words had gone.   
  
“My good Legolas,” said Aragorn gently, “you see much with those eyes of yours. Too much to accept certain narrow beliefs which are the consequences of your upbringing. I would beg you not to feel shame for it.”   
  
“I am not ashamed to call him friend,” answered Legolas. “But I will not press upon him the companionship of a… maudlin Elf beyond what is necessary for us to survive this struggle.” He smiled sadly.   
  
“It is not so much a sacrifice upon his part as you deem it,” said Aragorn. “Gimli’s regard for you is not self-serving.”   
  
“Friendship is a bond,” said Legolas, “and ours is more unyielding than most. Dwarves do not like chains. He resigns himself to my close company with good grace, but if such familiarity is kind to him, I must lose by it.”  
  
“You do yourself a discourtesy,” said Aragorn. “I know you well, son of Thranduil. You have a rare heart and a noble spirit. I would swear by your worth, if there were any to doubt it. Gimli will think no less of you for knowing you better.”  
  
“I am less than what he knows,” replied Legolas. “He was predisposed to scorn my people in Imladris and I returned his disdain. In Lothlorien he was enchanted by the Galadhrim and I accepted his admiration.” He lowered his eyes. “Reviled or revered, I was proud before him always, Aragorn. Now I fear to disappoint him.”  
  
Aragorn nodded with understanding. “You are no longer ‘the Elf’ to him. You are Legolas.”  
  
Legolas drew a small breath and then he laughed. “Nay, I am fodder for a Dwarf’s axe if he learns we were discussing him so. He would have my head and yours. You will not tell him what I have said?”  
  
Aragorn shook his head. “I will not encourage him.”   
  
Legolas flushed deeper. Aragorn chuckled even as he took the opportunity to search his companion’s face for traces of the damage done mere days ago. The cut was healed upon his cheek and the bruising had all but faded, though perhaps the memory of it had not. Aragorn held out his pipe and offering it to the Elf by way of amends. Legolas sputtered and choked as the smoke climbed up his nose. He waved it away and gave the Ranger a look of profound disgust.   
  
The harsh sound of rushing wings brought them both sharply to their feet.   
  
The swallows surged from their nests. A seeming impossible number of them poured from the cliff-face, a dizzying gale of rustling feathers and bird noises. They filled the air over the water, turning it black, though what had caused their distress the Elf and Ranger could not tell.   
  
Aragorn watched their flight with unease. And then his eyes were drawn up beyond the mass of smaller birds and he descried a dark spot against the fading light: a great bird high and far off, now wheeling, now flying on slowly southwards.  
  
“What is that, Legolas?” he asked, pointing.  
  
The Elf looked and said, “It is an eagle. A hunting eagle. I wonder what that forebodes. It is far from the mountains.” They watched the bird carefully until it vanished from their sight. Aragorn cast his hood over his head and Legolas did the same; the Elf gripped his bow tightly in his hands.   
  
“We will not start until it is fully dark,” said Aragorn.   
  
\---------------------------------------------  
  
Translations (loosely)  
  
Aiya bar-in-tuilinn, e-mbar Tuilindo. Look there, swallows’ homes, and the House of the Swallow. (See author’s note below.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Me: Oh my! I wasn’t going to get into any of this, but it went with the story. Here’s a bit of speculation as to Legolas’s maternal line, since Legolas’s mother seems such a topic of interest. 
> 
> As you all know, there is an Elf named Legolas in the tale of the Fall of Gondolin, accounted in The Book of Lost Tales II. This Legolas was a particularly keen-sighted individual of the House of the Tree who helped Gondolin’s refugees flee the ruined city. This Elf was our Legolas’s namesake, given to Mirkwood’s prince by his Noldor mother. I suggest that our Legolas’s mother was one of the few survivors of the sack of Gondolin, the daughter of Duilin, lord of the House of the Swallow, who was reputed for his skill as an archer, swift and sure, who was brought down by a Balrog during the last battle. Duilin’s daughter was among the children who fled over the Mountains and witnessed the valiant efforts of Elves like Glorfindel, Galdor, and Legolas of the Tree to save them. 
> 
> Duilin’s daughter wandered with the exiles and came eventually down the Sirion. When the Beleriand was destroyed, she was one of the few Noldor left who chose not to sail across the sea. Duilin’s daughter came east instead and met Thranduil, Sindarin Elf of Thingol’s kindred, who had dwelt in Lindon since the fall of Doriath. They married and relocated to Greenwood. When their child was born, she remembered the flight of her people from Gondolin and named her bright-eyed son after the Elf of the Tree who had been their guide.
> 
> Legolas gets his dark hair and his particular skill with a bow from his mother’s side of the family. He gets his love of the forests, his fair voice, his temperament, and that pesky sea-longing from his father’s side. The child of a Deep-elf and a Grey-elf, raised as a Wood-elf, Legolas truly does represent his people on Middle-earth as a whole and that is why Elrond chose him.
> 
> Like it or leave it, that is the background I’ve created for myself for Legolas. Tolkien probably invented the name for The Silmarillion and just decided he liked it well enough to use it again in The Lord of the Rings, but that explanation isn’t half as much fun!)


	21. Without Glory

They emerged from the confines of the cliffs after nightfall into open water. The Anduin settled in its course and spread out vast and dark before them. They expected the grey east wind, but it passed away and the thin crescent of the Moon had fallen early into the pale sunset. The sky was clear above, and though far in the South there were great ranges of cloud that shone faintly, in the West stars glinted bright.  
  
"We will venture one more journey by night," Aragorn said to them as they set out. "We are coming to reaches of the River that I do not know well; for I have never journeyed by water in these parts before, not between here and the rapids of Sarn Gebir. Bit if I am right in my reckoning, those are still many miles ahead. Still there are dangerous places even before we come there: rocks and stony eyots in the stream. We must keep a sharp watch and not try to paddle swiftly."  
  
They trusted his lead and stayed to the center of the stream where it was deepest. They skiffed along generously spaced and did not stray to wander the water despite the expanse of flat black river around them. Aragorn set a cautious pace. Sam was appointed watchman and he lay forward peering into the gloom. He was a nervous navigator and they moved ahead perhaps slower than was necessary; he was chosen certainly not for any great skill, but to keep him from fretting over his master. Frodo was unwell.  
  
They had allowed him several hours of sleep more than they could spare, yet Frodo had little strength to show for it. He crept from his bed to join them that evening looking used and haggard; his face was pinched and pale; the blue of his eyes washed away. Those nearest to him were more aware of the waning sunlight and the chill of the evening. He could not eat at supper; Sam coaxed him to drink and take a bite of waybread to sustain him. When the time came for them to leave, Legolas took over Frodo's struggle to stand; he was beyond protesting as the Elf knelt beside him and gathered him up, bearing him to the water. Aragorn settled the Ring-bearer securely between himself and Samwise as they cast off.  
  
"We are losing him," rumbled Gimli as Legolas waded out to their own boat. "He is fading."  
  
"He is fighting," said Legolas, "but there is something more adding to his burden, something he feels that we do not."  
  
"A searching eye, maybe."  
  
Legolas climbed in behind the Dwarf and drew his cloak tightly about his shoulders. Gimli looked at him and asked, "What is it that you feel?"  
  
The Elf shook his head. "I feel nothing. If there are servants of the Enemy abroad, they are beyond my ability to sense them."  
  
Gimli knew his companion's frustration. "His illness could be sprung from grief for Lórien, or the dread of facing the final leg of his quest. You cannot fight his fear for him."  
  
"It is more than that," the Elf disagreed, and naught Gimli said could ease him.  
  
Legolas became more unhappy as the darkness settled around them. The night was still, but his stirrings and sighs filled it with a restless impression. His discomfort built upon itself until it was too large for the confines of their boat and Gimli began to feel crowded by it. He was at first alarmed and heedful; only a fool dismissed such an instinct for danger, but after tolerating several hours of Legolas's incessant fidgeting, the Dwarf began to feel that if something were lurking in wait for them he would prefer to be caught by it peacefully unaware. It was unnerving as a cat starting up from a comfortable place to stare out a dark window. Legolas's eyes roved the shoreline and the sky. He tensed over sounds as slight as Gimli clearing his throat. The Dwarf's attempts to engage him in conversation fell flat; the Elf rejected idle talk and became irritable when Gimli tried to pry into his thoughts. Their slow pace was unbearable to Legolas and he rowed in fits when sitting still became too much for him. Gimli found himself playing a cautionary game of drifting tug-of-war with his companion, resisting the restive Elf when he tried to push them on ahead too fast.  
  
Boromir sensed them overtaking him again, stealing up uncomfortably close in his wake. He hurled a glance over his shoulder in protest and Gimli caught it. He scowled back, regretting the Man's limited sight in the darkness. "How often did he stumble into me when we were in Moria?" the Dwarf murmured. "He might find me now less gracious than I was. Keep your distance, Master Boromir, and we will keep ours." They were still pressing forward, however, on course to overtake the other boat. " _Legolas_!" Gimli snapped. "If we are not going swiftly enough for you, you can swim ashore here and walk the rest of the way!"  
  
There was a soft creak and trickle of water as the Elf withdrew his oar and subsided. They slowed, falling back into place a prudent distance behind the others.  
  
Gimli felt Legolas sigh and he regretted his impatience. "It could be worse," he offered. "Aragorn could have packed us up into barrels and sent us downstream for stealth's sake. I have been told firsthand it is not a comfortable manner in which to travel. You would find it more stifling than this boat and my poor company, I think."  
  
" _I do not like this night_."  
  
Startled, Gimli turned half about to look at the Elf. Legolas had drawn up his hood; only his eyes were visible, gleaming from the darkness as he stared up at the sky. "It is too bright," he said in the same taut voice. "The stars are hard... sharp...."  
  
"Should we call for them to halt?" asked Gimli, indicating the two boats creeping along ahead of them.  
  
"Nay!" Legolas shook his head. "We mustn't linger here!"  
  
"Then what would you have us do?" Gimli regarded the Elf with frustration. "We must go on as we are. This course of the River is perilous. Aragorn said so. We cannot afford to be reckless!"  
  
Legolas's eyes flashed with empty defiance at the Dwarf, but he said naught. He laid his oar across is lap and wrapped his cloak tighter about his shoulders. He sat with his arms folded and retreated within himself.  
  
Gimli let him brood. The night was particularly clear, and very still. But for the Elf's agitation, Gimli might have called it peaceful. It was certainly not overly bright in the Dwarf's estimation. Indeed, he would have welcomed more light to better see the possible bends and snags in the dark water. The sky did seem strange without the Moon's crescent; the stars were cast loose and straying whither they liked, their familiar patterns lost. Gimli squinted upward, discreetly seeking Durin's Crown, but a multitude of lesser stars had o'erwhelmed it. He dismissed the sight, unwilling to let the Elf's night-jitters become his own.  
  
They had gone but a small distance when they began to speed up once again. Gimli felt it. He roused himself from his musings and mustered another reproach for Legolas. But this time it was not the push of the Elf's oar winding them on full fast; it was the pull of the River. Gimli frowned. He leaned forward a little. Anduin's voice seemed different to him... deeper, fuller. It was a subtle change and he could not be certain; he was accustomed to the echo of rock and understood the groaning language of mountains, but the speech of running water was fey and played tricks with the senses. He chanced a look back at his companion, but Legolas hadn't noticed; his eyes were still fixed upon the sky and his ears were tuned above the mundane pitch of the River. Gimli listened for a moment, then he shipped his oar and rose up on his knees to peer ahead.  
  
His motion drew Legolas's attention. The Elf looked quickly at Gimli, and then past him as he came to realize the water's rising strength. Ere either of them could speak on it, their boat dipped and surged forward. The current caught them up with a jolt, sitting the Dwarf back down hard on his seat.  
  
"What are we coming to?" grunted Gimli, gripping his oar again as they were swept off suddenly toward the eastern shore. The swelling sound of swift water downstream was now plain to them both.  
  
Legolas gazed over the Dwarf's head. "The others are slowing," he said. "Something is wrong." And then his eyes widened. "They've run aground! Gimli,  _pull back_!"  
  
Elf and Dwarf plunged their paddles into the water, fighting to keep away from Boromir's sloughing vessel just ahead. They slowed themselves enough that the collision was a mere scrape and thump. The others had not run aground, not yet, but they could go no further. Ahead of them the pale foam of the River lashed against sharp rocks that thrust out far into the stream like a ridge of teeth. There was no gap; the water was torn into white-water pieces and then dragged into a deep channel on the left side, over a long steep series of cascades where it was fed down into complete darkness. The boats huddled together at the brink, shivering and rocking as the companions strove to hold them there and the River sought to pound them through.  
  
"Back, back!" cried Aragorn. "Turn! Turn if you can!"  
  
"Sarn Gebir," gasped Legolas. "We have met the Rapids!"  
  
Gimli did not waste the breath to reply. He brought his oar around and with a mighty effort began to push off against Boromir's hull. Boromir leaned out perilously far and helped to shove them away until the Elf and Dwarf were able to bring the baggage boat around. They dug in and began to force their way upstream against the current as the other two boats were checked and turned as well.  
  
The River was determined and untiring. It took advantage of each upstroke and every slip of their strength to steal the distance and pull them back. But the Fellowship was fresh and fighting after listless hours of drifting along. Anduin could only tug at them; it did not have them in its grasp.  
  
"How have we come so far?" panted Gimli as he paddled. "We could not have made better time than Aragorn expected!"  
  
"He misjudged the distance. We were closer than he knew," said Legolas.  
  
"Sarn Gebir in the dark! His wits have flown and so have yours," said Gimli angrily. "You would have pushed us on and drowned us with your haste!"  
  
Legolas accepted the Dwarf's rebuke; it was kinder than he knew he deserved. He spared a worried look over his shoulder and saw that the others were prevailing. Even Sam had taken up a paddle, though the manner in which he was waving it about seemed more a hazard to Frodo and Aragorn than any help. Legolas gave a breathless laugh. The pluck of the poor land-loving hobbit lifted the Elf's heart and he scorned the threat of the surging water, stabbing at it with vigorous strokes.  
  
The warning of his senses was sudden. Legolas stiffened, aware of the true danger ere he heard the faint ring of steel, the scrape of iron boots, the guttural voices. He sought the source; his eyes darted immediately to the shore on his right. Dark shapes moved against the night sky, dozens of them, running along the bank and clambering over the rocks. Everything in his elven blood had been poised and waiting on this attack since the night had begun, but the perilous water had been a distraction.  
  
The first arrow was shot into the air too high by a hasty hand. It rose sharply and slowed at the top of its arch, then tumbled down loosely to clatter spent into the boat at the Elf's feet.  
  
" _Yrch_!" said Legolas, falling into his own tongue.  
  
"Orcs!" cried Gimli. He stared at the shore, and then back at the black-feathered bolt lying between them. The Dwarf reached for it and cast it into the water with disgust.  
  
The whistle of a second arrow split the air, then another, and Legolas heard one of the hobbits give a sharp cry. The Elf flinched at the sound. He turned in dismay. Deadly darts were streaking like dark falling stars down upon the heads of his defenseless companions.  
  
"Watch yourself!" Gimli shouted at him. "Paddle, or we will be carried straight into their cowardly ambush!"  
  
Legolas despaired. "Ambush or accident, this is an evil place to be caught." He forced his eyes forward and matched the thrusts of Gimli's oar. Bitterly he rued the clear night and he whispered prayers to keep the others behind them safe from harm.  
  
But perhaps his prayers were heard, or the grey cloaks of Lórien and the grey timber of the elf-wrought boats defeated the malice of the archers of Mordor. The black foes clamoured and cursed from the shore, but their arrows bit into naught but wood and water. Legolas cast fleeting looks back, listening in dread for the sound of a solid hit, but there were no more cries from the hobbits or the Men. He did not hear the arrow that struck Gimli.  
  
The Dwarf worked his oar with his powerful arms, his back bent to the task. He kept up the litany of earnest curses he began upon his first sight of the Orcs. Then he missed a stroke. And two more. Thinking him winded, Legolas compensated with his own strength, allowing the Dwarf a moment to catch his breath. Gimli ceased his efforts and brought his paddle out of the water, laying it down at his side. Confused, the Elf wondered if the sturdy wood had snapped. Then Gimli reached over his shoulder and slowly jerked the arrow from his body. He clenched the black shaft tightly in his fist, then held it out and dropped it over the side. Legolas cried out to him, but the Dwarf answered with a firm shake of his head. There was naught that could be done about it, not then. The water swirled about them, still coaxing them toward the eastern shore. Legolas knelt forward and gave his strength to his oar. Little by little the Elf inched their boat upstream and climbed the River, fear spurring his heart to racing.  
  
In the endless darkness it was hard to be sure they were moving at all; it was a nightmare flight as they sought escape and seemed held in place. Gimli sat huddled at the forefront of the boat, buried in pain. Legolas lashed fiercely with his oar as the Orcs hurled threats at them in their Black Speech. One of them grew impatient and leapt splashing into the shallows. " _Cringing Elf-curs_!" it bellowed in Common. " _Tender meat! Come out of the water_!" Harsh laughter was traded along the bank and more arrows fell.  
  
Gimli was roused by the taunt. He stirred and lifted his head, then shook it as if shedding some mild discomfort. Legolas looked hopefully at his companion's broad back, willing his hurt to be insignificant, though he could tell it was not so by the way the Dwarf was holding himself. But to his disbelief, Gimli straightened and groped for his paddle, taking it up again.  
  
" _Sedho_!" Legolas snarled. "Stay still!"  
  
Gimli heeded him not and stubbornly began to thrust into the water, driving them forward. Legolas could hear a regular hitch in the Dwarf's breathing; soon he was drawing shallow uneven gasps, but still he kept on. Legolas bared his teeth and trebled his own effort, begging between each stroke for Gimli to cease.  
  
They laboured long until at last their boat slid into the middle of the stream above the jutting rocks. The pull of the water grew less and the shadow of the eastern bank faded back into the night. Reluctantly the River surrendered and let them go. The onslaught of arrows stopped. The Orcs jeered and howled, realizing their sport was spoiled, their targets out of reach. Legolas shuddered and cast a weary look behind him. The others had made it unharmed. Aragorn was turning and now leading them in a sharp diagonal toward the western shore. The Elf stretched out his oar to sweep and follow.  
  
Their small boat angled in the wrong direction. Legolas glanced up and saw Gimli slumping sideways, slowly bearing them askew. With a low shout, the Elf cast down his paddle and lunged forward over the bundles and baggage between them. He seized the swooning Dwarf, grappling for a hold on him. Gimli was heavy weight and the boat tilted dangerously as it continued to slide with the current. Legolas braced himself and struggled to haul Gimli back from the edge of their heeling vessel. A small wave struck their side and almost they were overturned. The Elf gasped at the slap of chill water and he drew a breath to call out for help.  
  
 _Let him go._  
  
The thought occurred to him, a loathsome whim. It did not pass. It lingered.  
  
 _The water is deep... the current strong...._  
  
The Elf considered the black water swirling close at hand. He could do naught for a moment but cling to Gimli, resisting the urge to release him to it. His mind dimmed. He closed his eyes tightly as pain throbbed along his jaw and up the side of his head, waking the memory of the blow Gimli had dealt him days ago.  
  
 _The river will claim you both... he cannot swim... none would know._  
  
Legolas's will wavered. The Dwarf slipped a little from his grasp.  
  
 _Let him go._  
  
Legolas cried out. With great effort, he shunned the notion, fending it away, horrified and shamed by it. His head cleared and a vision came to him of Gimli slowly sinking to the bottom of the River; and then it was not Gimli, but the Ring itself falling away beneath the murky water to lie between the weeds and green stones, mired in the thick mud --  _alive without breath, as cold as death_ \-- its reward for betraying Isildur, for delivering him up to be slain by his foes. Legolas felt heavy and cold as if he were the one being dragged down. He opened his eyes and saw how close he and Gimli were to becoming drowned things themselves. He clutched handfuls of the Dwarf's cloak and tugged at him desperately. To his relief, Gimli responded and groaned. He began a feeble effort to push himself away from the edge. Legolas wrapped his arms around his thickset companion and heaved him back until he was lying safely into the boat.  
  
"Keep still." His voice was a stern whisper in the Dwarf's ear. Legolas made certain Gimli would obey, then pulled away from him and found his paddle. He regained the distance they had lost and veered them toward the far bank.  
  
Under the shadow of bushes leaning out over the water they halted with the other boats. They did not speak. The darkness was such that they could hardly see one another, but they did not trust their concealment. Their hopes sank further as triumphant orc-voices surged again from the far shore.  
  
Legolas laid down his paddle and took up the bow he had brought from Lórien. Then he sprang ashore and climbed a few paces up the bank. His hands were slick with blood and water and he wiped them across his breast. He swiftly strung the bow and fitted an arrow, then lifted his head and peered back over the wide River. There came shrill cries from the other side, but naught could be seen. The eyes of the Orcs were no match for the Elf's, yet their voices were exultant as if their prey were caught.  
  
The reason for their glee came upon black wings.  
  
Now rising and sailing up from the South great clouds advanced, sending dark outriders in the starry fields. Legolas watched the clouds spread. He felt malice seeping from them like poison into the air. The Fellowship huddled fearfully together in the boats below him in the water. Legolas knew their terror, it was a numbing dread, yet he stood over them, a slender figure of defiance. The black clouds thickened and clotted the sky, snuffing out the bright stars. The clouds brought with them no wind. The open air was dead, stagnant. Not a breeze was stirred by the cold, creeping darkness.  
  
Legolas waited. He breathed the night and the stillness deeply into his body, steadying himself. This was not the sudden shock of a Balrog risen from the ashes of lore. Almost it was a relief, this end to expectation, this confrontation. "Elbereth Gilthoniel," he sighed. He heard Frodo gasp, a small sound below him in the dark.  
  
The air swelled with an answering cry, thin and cold and cruel. Legolas tensed. Even the Orcs fell quiet at that. A shape appeared in the sky. It grew into a great creature, blacker than the pits in the night. Legolas could not name it; whatever it was or might have been, the beast was unrecognizable to the Wood-elf. It was large enough but had neither the brash magnificence of a dragon, nor the grace and form of one of the Great Eagles. Its flight was ponderous, its neck long and its wings heavy. It was a carrion creature, a common scavenger; it was an eater of the dead. Legolas could taste the very foulness of its nature and he spat upon the ground. But scavengers were feeders, content to gorge themselves when the killing was done. What kept this scavenger fed?  
  
He could hear the leathery rasp of its wings, the vast creaking of tendons. Another bloodless cry pierced the air and Legolas realized that it came not from the maw of the flapping beast, but from within the deeper shadows that clung to it.  
  
The Hunter.  
  
The Once-elves on the far shore loosed their tongues and let forth a wild, lusting shout.  
  
Legolas raised his bow. His eyes glittered as if the light of the doused stars had taken refuge there. Anger filled him, a burning wrath. Their sorrow and strife, Frodo's torment, Mithrandir's loss, Gimli's blood -- all that was good that the Shadow had touched and tainted, his own Greenwood: all of their suffering he poured into the arrow at his fingertips. He could not bring harm upon the Ring or its Black Master, but this, ah this, was something he could strike! Legolas fixed his sight upon the dark shape as it surged forward. He took a slight breath and drew back the string of the great bow, far back, as far as he could take it. He held his arrow steady. And loosed it.  
  
The arrow flew from him with a high whistle, singing vengeance. Up it went, and sliced through the body of the winged beast with satisfying ease, taking its heart. The black thing swerved. There was a harsh croaking screech that came not from the Hunter but its mount; yet Hunter and beast plunged as one from the air and vanished into the gloom of the eastern shore.  
  
The darkness clung to the air and seemed to close in. Then the clouds stirred and were rent apart by a sudden free wind. White light filtered down from the stars and the sky was clean again. There was a tumult of many voices far away, cursing and wailing in the Black Speech, and then silence. Neither shaft nor cry came again from the East that night.  
  
Legolas stood quietly for a moment, hands loose at his sides, gazing uncertainly in the direction the creature had fallen. Then he unstrung his bow and stepped down the bank and back into the boat with Gimli.  
  
The Dwarf was waiting for him. He lifted his head as Legolas knelt beside him, gently rocking the boat. Gimli leaned forward and reached out a hand. He pushed back the Elf's hood to see his face. "Are you hurt?" he demanded.  
  
Legolas shook his head.  
  
"It is gone?"  
  
"Aye," said Legolas.  
  
Gimli closed his eyes and nodded heavily. "I suppose that you are of some use after all. It is good we brought you along."  
  
"Think you so?"  
  
"Aye, Elf... it is good." Gimli settled back carefully, stifling a groan. Legolas helped him to lay on his side and shifted their things to make him more comfortable. He unclasped Gimli's cloak and ripped open his shirt to reach the wound. The arrow had passed from a steep angle behind the Dwarf's shoulder deep into his body. Breathing was difficult, but Gimli was able to do it and the Elf judged the shaft had not touched anything vital when it had gone in, nor when it had been torn out. Legolas berated Gimli soundly for that particular bit of foolishness as he staunched the blood. If the archer's sure hands were now trembling, it went unnoticed.  
  
After a while, Aragorn led the boats upstream. They felt their way along the water's edge for some distance, until they found a shallow bay. A few low trees grew there close to the water, and behind them rose a steep rocky bank. Here the Company decided to stay and await the dawn; it was useless to attempt to move further by night. They made no camp and lit no fire, but lay huddled in the boats, moored close together.  
  
Legolas kept Gimli warm as best he could, but the Dwarf was soaked through and shivering. The constant lap of the water against the hull of their boat was dull agony to him. Gimli scoffed at the suggestion of poison, boasting himself stronger than anything the Orcs could concoct, but still Legolas worried and mourned the lack of a fire for him. Aragorn guided the Elf to the bottom of his pack where a leathern flask lay stored away, treasured all those miles, the last of the miruvor Gandalf had brought with him from Rivendell. Gimli held it aloft in memory of the wizard and then downed it. The Dwarf felt considerably warmer after that. Herbs there were also to lessen his pain and soon Gimli was in much better spirits than his companions, who were still feeling very vulnerable and afraid.  
  
"Praised be the bow of Galadriel, and the hand and eye of Legolas!" he said as he munched a wafer of lembas. "That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!"  
  
Legolas hushed him gently, alarmed by the loudness of the Dwarf's voice. "But who can say what it hit?" he said, reluctant to be the one to name their foe lest he summon it again. His gaze strayed to Frodo, who was looking pale but stronger. The Halfling's hand was clutched over his breast.  
  
"I cannot," said Gimli. He heeded the finger Legolas held to his lips and spoke quieter. "But I am glad the shadow came no nearer. I liked it not at all. Too much it reminded me of the shadow in Moria - the shadow of the Balrog," he ended in a whisper.  
  
"It was not a Balrog," said Frodo. "It was something colder. I think it was -" Then he paused and fell silent.  
  
"What do you think?" asked Boromir eagerly, shifting in his boat to catch a glimpse of Frodo's face.  
  
"I think - No, I will not say," answered Frodo. "Whatever it was, its fall has dismayed our enemies."  
  
"So it seems," said Aragorn, marking Boromir with a stern glance. "Yet where they are, and how many, and what they will do next, we do not know. This night we must all be sleepless! Dark hides us now. But what the day will show who can tell? Have your weapons close at hand."  
  
They could not have closed their eyes regardless of Aragorn's words; only Gimli succumbed and fell into a deep slumber. The Elf covered him over with blankets and kept vigil, singing softly to himself as his companion slept. The others were silent mostly, watching the stars, but Legolas was no longer interested in the sky. He watched the Dwarf, captured by the seeming lifelessness of his face. Grey and slack, it did not look like the face of his companion, his friend. The Dwarf looked very far away. He wanted desperately for Gimli to wake for just a moment and he resisted the urge to call to him, to shake him from his much needed rest. He touched the Dwarf's wrist instead and took comfort from the rush of blood he felt there. He chided himself for his fear.  
  
"It's very strange," said Sam. Legolas looked up expectantly, but Sam's attention was elsewhere. "The Moon's the same in the Shire and in Wilderland," he said, "or it ought to be. But either it's out of its running, or I'm all wrong in my reckoning. You'll remember, Mr Frodo, the Moon was waning as we lay on the flet up in that tree: a week from the full. And we'd been a week on the way last night, when up pops a New Moon as thin as a nail-paring, as if we had never stayed no time in the Elvish country. I can remember three nights there for certain, and I seem to remember several more, but I would take my oath it was never a whole month. Anyone would think that time did not count in there."  
  
"And perhaps that was the way of it," replied Frodo. "In that land, maybe, we were in a time that has elsewhere long gone by. It was not, I think, until the Silverlode bore us back to Anduin that we returned to the time that flows through mortal lands to the Great Sea. And I don't remember any moon, either new or old, in Caras Galadon: only stars by night and sun by day."  
  
Legolas listened quietly with Gimli's hand clasped in his own. He remembered. He could have recounted to them every moment of their days and nights in Lothlórien. The Moon had been full and beautiful on the night the Lady had called him to her while the Galadhrim celebrated the bloom of Telperion's light; she had counselled the young Elf, listened to his thoughts, and to his wonderment, she had spoken of marching long ago with Fingolfin's exiled host into Middle-earth by the silver shine of the new-wrought Moon. The splendour of her tale had exhilarated Legolas; the ancient regret in Galadriel's voice had pierced his heart. She had not forgotten the days before the first dawn, yet already Lórien was becoming a vague memory for the hobbits.  
  
"Nay, time does not tarry ever," he told them. "But change and growth are not in all things and places alike. For the Elves, the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they do not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last."  
  
Legolas fell silent then and he smiled in the dark, imagining what Gimli would have to say about time slowing to tedium when an Elf opened his mouth to speak. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, slipping back into thought. He attended each breath Gimli took and deemed this was to be the measure by which he would mark his hours, his days, his own running years. He considered the loyalty and love these companions had claimed from him and the price that would come of twining his existence with their brief lives. The odds were against his heart, he knew; yet with a courage that might have shamed the Elf-lords of old, Thranduil's son chose his fate and held fast to the Dwarf's hand.


End file.
